PLAYS  OF  THE 

47  WORKSHOP 


THREE  PILLS  IN  A  BOTTLE 

By  RACHEL  LYMAN  FIELD 

"THE  GOOD   MEN  DO" 

By  HUBERT  OSBORNE 

TWO  CROOKS  AND  A  LADY 

By  EUGENE  PILLOT 

FREE  SPEECH 

By  WILLIAM  L.  PROSSEB 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANOS 

1923 


Copyright,  1918 
BY  BRENTANOS 


First  printing,  June  1918 
Second  printing,  March  1920 
Third  printing    July   1921 
Fourth  printing,  January  1923 


Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringements  of  the  dramatist's  rights,  as  follows: 

"Sec.  4966:  —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall 
be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be 
assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to 
the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance 
and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons 
shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im 
prisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  —  TJ.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


INTRODUCTION 

All  the  plays  in  this  volume  were  originally 
produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  —  not  "  The  47 
Workshops  "  as  one  or  two  newspapers,  appar 
ently  recalling  Ali  Baba  and  the  Forty  Thieves, 
have  called  the  organization.  The  somewhat 
homely  title  means  just  what  it  suggests.  This 
is  a  "  Workshop,"  because  anyone  who  believes 
he  has  ability  in  any  of  the  arts  connected  with 
the  theatre  —  acting,  scene  or  costume  designing, 
lighting,  directing,  or  play  writing  —  may  here 
prove  his  quality.  It  is  "  The  47  Workshop  " 
because  it  grew  from  a  course  in  playwriting, 
English  47,  for  many  years  offered  by  the  Depart 
ment  of  English  of  Harvard  University. 

The  47  Workshop,  however,  is  not  in  the  usual 
sense  a  theatre.  It  has  no  wish  to  revolutionize 
anything.  It  masks  no  scheme  for  a  civic  or 
community  theatre.  Its  main  purpose  is  to  try 
out  interesting  plays  written  in  the  courses  in 
Dramatic  Technique  at  Harvard  University  and 
Radcliffe  College.  Though  it  does  reserve  the 
right  from  time  to  time  to  revive  some  classic 
like  "  Maitre  Patelin,"  some  curiosity  like  the 
"  Revesby  Sword  Play,"  or  to  produce  some  not 
able  foreign  play  not  likely  to  be  seen  on  the  pro 
fessional  stage  of  this  country,  such  as  the  Ice 
landic  "  Eyvind  of  the  Hills,"  its  usual  order  of 
[vii] 


INTRODUCTION 

election  is:  first,  plays  recently  written  in  one  of 
the  courses ;  second,  plays  written  by  a  past  mem 
ber  of  these  courses  within  five  years  after  com 
pleting  study  at  Harvard  or  Radcliffe ;  third,  any 
other  plays  by  Harvard  or  Radcliffe  graduates; 
fourth,  revivals  of  dramatic  classics  or  curiosities, 
or  productions  of  foreign  plays. 

The  47  Workshop  was  founded  in  1912  to  meet 
a  need  steadily  more  evident  in  the  courses  in 
dramatic  composition.  Plays  of  real  merit  and 
evidently  ready  for  professional  production  found 
an  opening  sooner  or  later,  but  each  year  others 
were  written,  full  of  promise,  but  not  likely  to  find 
a  ready  market  because  of  their  unusual  subjects, 
some  peculiarity  of  treatment,  or  technical  faults 
which  the  author,  in  spite  of  class  criticism,  could 
not  see.  What  was  needed  to  prove  the  availabil 
ity  of  some  of  these  for  the  general  public,  or  to 
round  others  into  final  shape,  was  merely  an  op 
portunity  to  see  the  play  adequately  acted  before 
an  audience,  sympathetic  yet  genuinely  critical. 
Just  because  The  47  Workshop,  a  local  response 
to  a  wide-felt  need,  began  in  the  simplest  way  and 
has  grown  into  admitted  effectiveness  under  con 
ditions  often  very  unfavorable,  its  history  may  be 
useful  to  persons  who  are  dreaming  of  some  such 
place  for  trying  out  plays,  or  are  wondering  why 
some  experimental  theatre  in  which  they  are  inter 
ested  is  not  succeeding. 

The  47  Workshop  began  with  a  guarantee  for 
one  year  of  five  hundred  dollars,  given  by  past 
members  of  the  courses  in  dramatic  composition. 
For  that  sum  three  long  original  plays  were  pro- 


INTRODUCTION 

duced,  —  six  performances  in  all.  The  theatre, 
seating  comfortably  only  some  two  hundred  at 
each  performance,  was  put  at  the  disposal  of  The 
Workshop  by  Radcliffe  College  at  the  expense 
only  of  lighting  and  service.  The  small  stage  is 
really  a  lecture  platform,  originally  surrounded 
by  steel-girdered  walls  which  have  been  slightly 
readjusted  to  make  giving  plays  a  little  less  diffi 
cult.  Dressing  rooms  have  been  inadequate.  Any 
painting  of  scenery  must  for  lack  of  space  be  done 
away  from  the  theatre.  Because  this  was  avail 
able  for  only  two  rehearsals  before  each  perform 
ance,  such  work  must  for  some  years  be  done  in 
a  room  the  floor  space  of  which  bore  no  relation 
to  the  stage  to  be  used.  In  other  words,  The  47 
Workshop  began  much  as  any  organization  will 
begin  which,  having  no  special  building,  must  give 
its  plays  in .  a  hall  on  a  stage  primarily  intended 
for  lectures,  must  rehearse  where  it  can,  and  must 
store  its  belongings  here  and  there. 

The  fundamental  principle  of  The  47  Workshop 
—  and  to  this  it  has  held  steadily  throughout  its 
history  —  has  been  that  everyone  from  director  to 
stage  hands  must  cooperate  in  putting  the  play 
upon  the  stage  as  the  author  sees  it.  A  play  is 
not  accepted  unless  in  itself  worthy  and  not  until 
the  director  believes  the  author  has  done  all  he 
can  for  it  at  the  moment,  and  needs  a  production 
if  he  is  to  round  it  into  final  shape.  Before  any 
final  plans  as  to  setting,  costuming,  and  lighting 
are  made,  the  author  is  carefully  consulted,  as  he 
is  in  regard  to  the  casting  of  the  play,  —  though 
the  director  has  the  last  word  in  this  matter, 
[ix] 


INTRODUCTION 

The  author  is  expected  to  be  present  at  all  re 
hearsals,  and  between  each  rehearsal  and  the  next 
to  keep  the  director  informed  as  to  any  sugges 
tions  he  may  have  to  make.  Except  by  special 
permission,  he  is  expected  to  deal  with  the  actors, 
only  through  the  director.  If  he  has  had  experi 
ence  in  coaching  plays,  he  is  asked  to  take  charge  of 
some  of  the  rehearsals,  usually  the  earlier,  when 
the  actors  are  studying  the  broader  aspects  of 
their  characters  and  the  general  atmosphere  of  the 
piece.  When  a  play  is  once  approved  for  pro 
duction,  changes  are  avoided  in  order  that  the 
author  may  make  them  not  because  advised  so  to 
do  by  anyone  immediately  connected  with  the  pro 
duction,  but  because  he  is  convinced  by  the  con 
sensus  of  opinion  in  his  audience  that  such  changes 
are  imperative.  In  other  words,  any  attempt  to 
relegate  the  author  to  the  position  of  some  one 
doubtless  necessary  in  the  writing  of  the  play  but 
thereafter  more  desirable  absent  than  present,  is 
frowned  on.  Unquestionably  a  producer  knows 
best  how  to  get  the  effects  an  author  desires,  but 
just  what  these  effects  are  the  author  surely  knows 
best.  The  result  of  this  policy  has  been  great 
loyalty  to  The  Workshop  on  the  part  of  its 
authors. 

It  is  a  corollary  of  what  has  just  been  said, 
that  The  47  Workshop  believes  "  The  play 's  the 
thing.*'  The  curse  of  many  an  experimental 
theatre  is  amateurishness  —  the  spirit  which 
makes  the  play  merely  an  occasion  for  social 
meetings  ;  which  puts  the  actors  ahead  of  the  play ; 
and  which  treats  lateness  and  irregularity  in  at- 


INTRODUCTION 

tendance,  noisy  rehearsals,  and  a  superficial  study 
of  a  part  as  quite  natural.  Most  amateurs  speak 
lines;  they  do  not  act,  in  the  sense  that  they  re 
make  themselves  into  the  characters  of  the  play. 
Ask  most  amateurs  to  sacrifice  something  to  the 
ensemble,  or  to  play  in  a  scene  which  they  believe 
could  easily  be  bettered,  and  they  are  likely  to  be 
discontented  or  rebellious.  Such  an  organization 
as  The  47  Workshop  could  not,  of  course,  be  main 
tained  by  actors  with  any  such  standards.  It  was 
necessary  therefore  slowly  to  gather  together  a 
group  of  actors  who  would  regard  the  play  as  of 
first  importance.  Harvard  and  Radcliffe  were,  of 
course,  most  frequently  called  on,  but  anyone  who 
has  cared  to  offer  his  or  her  services,  and  who 
could  show  some  previous  experience,  has  been 
given  an  opportunity.  Little  by  little,  as  these 
persons  —  they  range  from  children  to  people  of 
middle  age  —  have  proved  their  competence,  they 
have  been  invited  to  become  members  of  The  47 
Workshop  Company.  When  elected  to  this,  a 
member  agrees  to  act  when  called  on;  to  do  his 
utmost  in  helping  to  produce  the  play  as  the 
author  sees  it ;  to  play  any  part  the  director  as 
signs  ;  not  to  act  elsewhere  without  permission ; 
and  when  acting  elsewhere,  to  see  that  he  is  ac 
credited  on  any  program  to  The  47  Workshop. 
The  election  comes  by  recommendation  from  the 
executive  committee  to  a  sub-committee  composed 
of  the  director  and  two  representatives  from  the 
company.  The  decision  of  this  sub-committee  is 
final.  Two  members  of  the  company,  one  man  and 
one  woman,  represent  it  in  the  executive  com- 


INTRODUCTION 

mittee,  which  governs  The  Workshop.  To-day 
members  of  standing  in  the  company  can  be  de 
pended  upon  to  see  that  any  neophytes  strictly 
regard  the  traditions  which  have  been  built  up  as 
to  promptness  and  quiet  at  rehearsals,  speedy 
learning  of  parts,  and  subordination  of  self  to  the 
ensemble.  The  loyalty  and  the  growing  skill  of 
this  company,  some  thirty  in  number,  are  largely 
responsible  for  whatever  success  The  47  Work 
shop  has  had. 

Early  in  the  history  of  the  organization  it  be 
came  evident  that  there  should  be  an  artistic 
director  who,  after  preliminary  conference  with 
the  author  and  the  director,  would  supervise  the 
setting,  costuming,  and  lighting  of  each  produc 
tion.  Immediately  the  desirability  of  this  step 
was  proved  by  the  disappearance  of  clashing 
colors,  costumes  that  did  not  accord  with  the  set 
ting,  and  other  artistic  flaws  previously  caused 
by  carelessness,  differing  tastes  among  the  actors, 
and  even  some  native  obstinacy.  As  the  organiza 
tion  has  grown,  it  has  become  necessary  to  put 
some  one  in  charge  of  the  increasingly  large 
amount  of  scenery,  who  shall  be  able  to  say  at  a 
moment's  notice  what  is  in  hand  which  may  be 
used  as  it  is  or  when  made  over,  and  what  must  be 
specially  built  and  painted.  It  is  now  possible  to 
paint  within  The  Workshop  practically  all  the 
scenery  used.  The  person  in  charge  of  this  work, 
like  the  person  in  charge  of  costumes,  and  the  per 
son  in  charge  of  lighting,  works  under  the  super 
vision  of  the  artistic  director.  It  has  become  neces 
sary  to  put  some  special  person,  made  responsible 
[xii] 


INTRODUCTION 

to  the  stage  manager,  in  charge  of  small  proper 
ties,  who  gives  out  and  replaces  all  stock  proper 
ties  and. catalogues  the  new.  It  has  been  possible 
slowly  to  replace  hired  stage  hands  by  volunteers, 
and  to  shape  them  into  a  group  analogous  to  the 
company,  chosen  by  election  after  proved  service. 
They  are  represented  on  the  executive  committee 
by  the  stage  manager,  and  from  them  stage  man 
agers  and  property  managers  are  first  chosen.  In 
other  words,  paid  assistance  has  been  eliminated 
slowly,  so  that  from  the  writing  of  the  play  to  the 
dropping  of  the  final  curtain  —  through  acting, 
directing,  scene  and  costume  designing  or  making, 
lighting,  make-up,  and  scene-shifting  —  The  47 
Workshop  now  depends  upon  its  own  members. 

An  executive  committee,  composed  of  the  direc 
tor,  the  secretary-treasurer,  and  the  heads  of  all 
working  committees,  as  well  as  two  representatives 
from  the  company,  guide  and  control  the  fortunes 
of  The  Workshop.  Naturally  the  heads  of  the 
various  departments  change  from  year  to  year, 
and  sometimes  oftener,  but  a  small  group  of  three 
or  four  have  worked  together  from  the  very  be 
ginning  and  thus  have  been  able  to  see  that,  while 
there  has  been  growth,  there  has  been  no  danger 
ous  departure  from  the  original  purposes  for 
which  The  Workshop  was  founded. 

Membership  rests  on  one  of  the  basal  principles 
of  the  organization.  The  audience  is  confined  by 
seating  conditions  to  four  hundred  —  for  each 
evening,  two  hundred.  Membership  comes  through 
an  election  committee.  Candidates  for  the  audi 
ence  must  be  proposed  and  seconded  by  members, 
[  xiii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

with  a  statement  of  qualifications,  for  every  regu 
lar  member  before  admission  is  supposed  to  have 
shown  some  special  interest  in  the  kind  of  pro 
ducing  and  plays  which  The  Workshop  provides. 
Persons  who  might  come,  as  do  most  audiences  at 
amateur  theatricals,  to  admire  and  praise  un 
thinkingly  their  friends  among  the  actors;  per 
sons  who  are  interested  only  in  seeing  their  own 
plays,  or  plays  of  a  similar  kind ;  persons  who  cul 
tivate  the  bizarre  in  plays  or  indeed  any  one  par 
ticular  kind  of  play  —  all  such  are  not  welcome. 
On  the  other  hand,  people  who  care  deeply  enough 
for  the  theatre  to  be  interested  in  seeing  plays  of 
promise  rounded  into  shape;  people  who  are  in 
terested  in  all  kinds  of  experimentation  in  the  arts 
of  the  theatre  —  all  such  are  very  welcome.  Every 
member  is  expected  to  contribute  something.  In 
the  first  place,  he  agrees  to  hand  in  a  written  com 
ment  on  each  production,  within  a  week  of  the 
final  performance.  Secondly,  he  marks  on  a  mem 
bership  card  the  one  or  more  activities  of  The 
Workshop  in  which  he  is  willing  to  share.  Here 
he  is  given  a  wide  choice.  These  conditions  mean 
that,  even  apart  from  the  criticisms,  a  large  por 
tion  of  the  audience  annually  cooperate  in  the 
work  of  producing  the  plays. 

All  criticisms  are  handed  in  signed.  When  the 
director  has  read  them,  the  names  are  removed 
and  the  comments  handed  to  the  author  of  the 
play  in  question.  In  later  conference  with  the 
director,  the  author  decides  what  changes  must 
be  made  in  his  play  in  the  light  of  the  criticisms. 
These  are  as  a  group  always  helpful.  Every  play 
[xiv] 


INTRODUCTION 

in  this  volume  has  been  thus  rewritten,  and  the 
Craig  Prize  play,  "  Between  the  Lines,"  as  well 
as  the  Washington  Square  success,  "  Plots  and 
Playwrights,"  both  originally  produced  by  The 
47  Workshop,  were  before  professional  produc 
tion  rewritten  under  these  conditions. 

As  the  possessions  of  The  47  Workshop  in  the 
way  of  scenery  and  properties  became  too  numer 
ous  and  cumbersome  to  be  stored  away  in  odd 
places,  Harvard  College  put  storage  and  rehearsal 
space  at  its  disposal.  All  plays  are  now  prepared 
for  nearly  three  weeks  in  a  rehearsal  room  and 
then  transferred  to  the  theatre  at  Radcliffe  for 
two  dress  rehearsals  and  two  performances.  For 
two  nights  before  the  first  dress  rehearsal  the 
stage  manager  and  his  force  are  fitting  the  set 
tings  to  the  stage,  and  seeing  that  all  properties 
are  on  hand  and  in  place.  The  aim  is  to  have  the 
stage,  so  far  as  scenery,  properties,  and  lighting 
are  concerned,  in  such  condition  that  the  director 
can  at  this  first  dress  rehearsal  really  rehearse, 
without  long  waits  for  the  setting  of  scenery  or 
the  right  placing  of  properties.  Of  course,  this 
desired  result  is  possible  only  when  there  is  a 
spirit  of  complete  cooperation  on  the  part  of  the 
artistic  force  and  all  who  are  working  under  the 
stage  manager  for  the  desired  total  result  —  the 
best  production  of  the  play  in  question  that  The 
Workshop  force  can  give.  People  who  wish,  cost 
what  it  may  to  the  author  or  the  play,  to  exploit 
themselves  or  their  special  gifts  in  settings,  cos 
tuming,  lighting  or  any  other  form  of  stage-craft, 
have  no  proper  place  in  work  of  this  kind.  They 
[xv] 


INTRODUCTION 

should  have  their  own  theatres,  to  which  the  audi 
ence  admittedly  comes  to  see  their  work. 

One  of  the  chief  difficulties  in  the  way  of  most 
experimental  theatres  is  their  financing,  for  a 
theatre  easily  becomes  a  place  of  extravagance 
and  waste.  Experience  has  shown  clearly  that  The 
Workshop,  with  its  system  of  trained  volunteer 
aid,  can  give  an  adequate  performance  of  a  three- 
act  to  five-act  modern  play,  for  approximately 
three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  A  program  of 
three  or  four  one-act  plays  or  a  costume  play 
naturally  costs  somewhat  more.  That  is,  with  an 
annual  income  varying  from  twelve  hundred  dol 
lars  to  never  more  than  two  thousand  dollars  at 
the  most,  The  47  Workshop  has  been  able  during 
a  season  to  produce  four  programs  at  the  least  — 
one  of  these  of  short  plays  —  and  at  the  most  five 
programs,  two  of  these  of  short  plays;  a  total 
of,  say,  three  long  plays  and  seven  one-act  plays. 
This  has  meant  in  recent  years  no  painful  economy 
such  as  any  organization  might  be  unwilling  to 
undergo,  but  merely  careful  cooperation  to  see 
that  no  money  is  wasted.  No  one  is  asked  to  pay 
a  membership  fee,  for  it  has  seemed  to  the  execu 
tive  committee  that  regular  dues  might  lead  mem 
bers  to  feel  that  their  preferences  in  types  of  plays 
to  be  produced  should  be  considered.  This  com 
mittee  has  felt  that  only  with  an  absolutely  free 
hand  could  they  treat  with  equality  the  many 
different  kinds  of  play  written  in  the  courses  in 
playwriting.  However,  members,  knowing  that 
the  means  of  the  organization  have  always  been 
limited,  have  sent  in  contributions  when  they 
[xvi] 


INTRODUCTION 

pleased  for  the  amount  they  pleased.  As  a  re 
sult,  since  the  first  year  The  47  Workshop  has 
been  supported  by  large  and  small  gifts  from  its 
members,  only  to  a  very  slight  extent  solicited. 
These  solicited  subscriptions  have  come  from  mem 
bers  who,  individually,  have  guaranteed  particular 
productions  by  subscribing  the  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  necessary.  With  the  approval  of  the 
executive  committee,  such  a  giver  has  named  the 
production  for  someone  in  the  past  connected  with 
The  47  Workshop,  or  if  he  preferred,  for  some 
noted  actor  or  actress.  The  history  of  The  47 
Workshop  has  proved  that  what  is  vital  in  such 
experimentation  is  not  a  large  sum  of  money,  but 
enough  to  pay  expenses  without  a  scrimping  that 
cheapens  the  artistic  results,  until  such  time  as 
three  or  four  hundred  people  become  convinced 
that  the  organization  stands  for  something  they 
wish  to  see  and  is  thriftily  managed.  They  will 
then  readily  provide  what  funds  are  necessary. 
In  order  to  produce  this  desired  state  of  mind,  the 
play  should  be  made  of  chief  importance,  first, 
last,  and  always.  This  means  that  the  acting, 
the  scenery,  the  lighting,  and  the  costuming  must 
as  soon  as  possible  be  made  adequate,  and  soon 
thereafter  imaginative  and  contributive.  What 
kills  experimental  theatre  after  experimental  thea 
tre  is  waste  where  there  should  be  judicious  econ 
omy  and  a  desire  to  branch  out  too  soon  into  all 
the  possible  activities  of  a  theatre.  The  experi 
ence  of  The  Workshop  in  its  six  years  of  existence 
has  shown  that,  if  the  main  emphasis  is  kept  on 
the  play,  an  audience  will  permit  a  slow  growth 
[  xvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

toward  desired  ideals.  It  will  allow,  too,  a  shifting 
of  the  chief  accomplishment  —  from  acting  to  set 
ting,  to  lighting,  or  to  some  other  activity  —  as 
special  conditions  in  a  particular  year  make  it 
necessary  to  develop  one  department  more  than 
another.  Do  the  best  that  conditions  permit  with 
the  play  in  question,  and  an  audience  which  comes 
for  the  purposes  which  bring  the  Workshop  audi 
ence  together  will  be  both  loyal  and  appreciative. 

The  47  Workshop  is,  of  course,  merely  one  type 
of  several  which  have  developed  in  the  recent 
rapid  evolution  in  experimental  theatres.  Like 
many  others,  it  probably  would  never  have  been 
founded  had  not  the  Abbey  Theatre,  Dublin, 
under  the  brilliant  and  wise  guidance  of  W.  B. 
Yeats  and  Lady  Gregory,  shown  how  much  may 
be  done  from  the  smallest  beginnings,  if  courage 
and  wisdom  assist.  Of  course,  it  has  had  to  adapt 
to  its  conditions  many  ideas  given  it  by  the  Dub 
lin  company.  In  turn,  its  history  has  led  directly 
or  indirectly  to  the  forming  of  a  number  of  similar 
organizations,  such  as  The  Theatre  Workshop  of 
New  York,  The  Playshop  in  Chicago,  The  Vassar 
Workshop,  etc.  Just  because  there  has  been  wide 
spread  interest  in  possible  adaptation  of  its 
methods  to  conditions  elsewhere,  general  to  a  com 
munity  or  special  to  school  or  college,  it  has 
seemed  not  immodest  to  give  its  history  with  the 
detail  of  this  introduction. 

Surely  it  is  undeniable  that  such  a  laboratory 

is  indispensable  for  the  swift  training  of  young 

dramatists  or  possible  stage  directors.    Without  it 

a  dramatist  waits  to  see  his  work  in  action  until  he 

[  xviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

is  fortunate  enough  to  get  a  professional  produc 
tion.  In  many  cases  this  means  that  all  the  weeks 
before  the  play  is  brought  into  New  York  or  one 
of  the  leading  cities  are  spent  in  reshaping  the 
play  by  what  the  author  and  others  are  able  to 
guess  the  audience  thinks  of  the  play.  A  large 
proportion  of  these  changes,  if  not  all,  may  be 
forestalled  in  such  an  experimental  theatre,  for 
most  of  them  concern  matters  of  clear  exposition, 
right  emphasis,  convincing  motivation,  confused 
structure,  or  strong  prejudices  on  the  part  of 
any  audience  overlooked  by  the  author.  When 
a  play  professionally  produced  has  a  dubi 
ous  reception,  everyone  from  call  boy  to  actor 
falls  to  guessing  why  —  and  few  guess  rightly. 
There  is  no  guessing  involved  in  rewriting  with 
the  aid  of  such  an  audience  as  The  47  Workshop 
provides.  There  people  trained  in  the  theatre, 
amateurs  of  the  theatre,  specialists  in  different 
arts  connected  with  the  theatre,  persons  entirely 
competent  to  stand  for  "  the  general  public,"  all 
make  their  individual  comments  in  their  individual 
ways.  From  the  total  result,  even  if  at  first  it 
may  seem  confusing  to  the  author,  there  come 
definite  impressions  as  to  what  must  be  done  with 
the  play  to  make  it  serviceable  for  a  larger  public. 
Ask  any  author  who  has  had  the  experience  and 
he  will  tell  you  that  this  is  true.  Undoubtedly 
other  changes  may  become  necessary  when  such 
a  play  is  put  into  professional  performance  before 
a  larger  public,  but  only  a  very  small  proportion 
of  change  will  be  necessary  as  compared  with  what 
otherwise  would  have  been  the  case.  After  a 
[xix] 


INTRODUCTION 

famous  play  contest  a  manager  said,  "  The  plays 
are  divisible  into  two  great  groups  —  those  tech 
nically  well  written  with  nothing  to  say  that  is 
fresh  or  significant,  and  those  containing  admir 
able  subject  matter,  with  good  characterization 
and  dialogue,  but  so  little  fitted  for  the  stage  that 
they  cannot  be  considered."  Think  what  a  num 
ber  of  organizations  like  The  47  Workshop,  scat 
tered  over  the  country,  might  do  for  inexperienced 
dramatists !  What  might  they  not  save  in  pro 
found  disappointment  to  the  authors  who  try 
rapidly  to  remake  their  plays  before  the  public, 
what  in  exasperation  to  managers  who  have  vainly 
risked  tinkering  a  play  into  shape  before  it  meets 
the  New  York  public.  History  has  shown  that 
though  certain  men  and  women  prefer  to  do  their 
revising  before  the  general  public,  most  are  con 
fused,  and  some  are  even  made  sterile  by  the 
sense  that  so  much  is  at  stake  and  by  the  intense 
pressure.  Do  not  the  six  years  of  The  47  Work 
shop  show  that  such  an  experimental  theatre  is 
worth  attempting  wherever  a  group  of  people 
honestly  more  interested  in  the  arts  of  the  theatre 
than  in  any  personal  exploitation  may  be  gathered 
together,  and  do  they  not  show  that  with  patience 
and  unwillingness  to  grant  defeat  their  organiza 
tion  is  likely  to  win,  after  a  few  years,  its  place  in 
the  community? 

It  will  not  hurt  any  ambitious  young  playwright 
to  try  his  hand  at  every  one  of  the  activities  con 
nected  with  such  an  organization  as  The  47  Work 
shop,  though  it  is  not  easy  to  make  him  under 
stand  this.  If  he  has  shifted  scenery,  he  will 
[xx] 


INTRODUCTION 

make  few,  if  any,  unnecessary  demands  for  elabo 
rate  and  heavily  constructed  pieces.  When  he 
has  had  his  part  in  the  handling  of  stage  proper 
ties,  he  will  not  call  for  them  to  an  unnecessary 
extent,  nor  will  he  clutter  his  stage  with  what  is 
artistically  undesirable.  When  he  has  assisted 
in  lighting,  he  will  be  less  likely  to  ask  the  light 
man  to  provide  the  atmosphere  and  the  subtler 
gradations  of  feeling  which  it  is  his  business  to 
provide  by  his  text.  Studying  rehearsals,  he  will 
better  understand  the  value  of  the  spoken  word, 
and  will  come  to  see  why  it  is  not  wise,  as  a  rule, 
merely  to  sketch  in  his  characters,  trusting  that 
he  can  be  provided  with  so  admirable  a  cast  that 
each  actor  will  fill  out  his  part  in  a  way  perfectly 
satisfactory  to  the  somewhat  lazy  author.  In 
deed,  he  will  learn  a  hundred  and  one  details  as 
to  the  absolute  essentiality  of  writing  with  actors 
in  mind  rather  than  for  a  reading  public.  Never 
learning  all  this,  many  of  our  authors  find  them 
selves  relegated  to  the  closet.  Of  course,  such  an 
experimental  theatre  is  at  best  merely  a  bridge 
from  inexperience  to  the  wider  and  still  more  en 
lightening  experience  of  production  in  the  profes 
sional  theatre,  but  a  bridge  is  a  quicker  and  far 
more  convenient  method  of  crossing  a  stream  than 
jumping  as  best  one  can  from  stone  to  stone.  The 
latter  way  often  means  a  ducking. 

Similarly,  though  probably  not  to  the  same  ex 
tent,  such  an  experimental  theatre  is  of  large  value 
to  the  young  man  or  young  woman  who  hopes 
ultimately  to  become  manager  of  a  theatre.  On 
a  small  scale  the  rudiments  of  the  business  may 
[xxi] 


INTRODUCTION 

be  learned,  and  he  who  would  run  a  theatre  effec 
tively  and  without  undue  waste  must  at  some  time 
come  to  understand  the  elements,  at  least,  of  the 
various  arts  called  on  whenever  any  play  is  suc 
cessfully  produced.  Nothing  could  be  of  better 
promise  for  the  American  drama  of  the  next  gen 
eration  than  that  all  over  our  country  young  men 
and  women  who  have  learned  the  rudiments  in  some 
experimental  theatre  should,  after  necessary  years 
of  intervening  experience  in  subordinate  positions 
of  the  professional  theatre,  pass  on  into  profes 
sional  managements.  We  need  badly  to  develop 
in  this  country  a  group  of  men  and  women  as 
nearly  corresponding  as  our  conditions  will  permit 
to  the  intendants  and  regissewrs  of  the  conti 
nental  theatres  —  men  and  women  managing 
theatres  because  from  their  youth  they  have  loved 
and  studied  the  theatre  and  the  drama;  people  of 
cultivation,  determined,  while  they  keep  the  public 
thoroughly  entertained  and  amused,  to  give  it  as 
much  of  the  best,  in  the  past  and  the  present  of 
the  drama  as  their  public  can  be  induced  to  accept. 
These  are  the  conditions  which  most  speedily  will 
give  us  American  drama  able  in  the  number  and 
quality  of  its  plays  to  hold  its  own  with  the  drama 
of  older  nations.  It  is  for  these  reasons  that  the 
rapid  growth  of  experimental  theatres  in  this 
country  for  the  past  ten  years,  in  spite  of  some 
bad  mistakes  and  many  failures,  has  been  the  most 
encouraging  theatrical  sign  of  the  times. 

One  result  from  this  rapid  growth  is  already 
clear.   These  theatres  have  greatly  encouraged  the 
young  American  dramatist :  first,  by  giving  him  a 
[  xxii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

chance  to  see  many  plays  he  would  not  otherwise 
have  seen  which  have  helped  him  to  standardize  his 
work ;  and  secondly,  by  offering  him  an  opportun 
ity  he  would  not  otherwise  have  had  to  be  heard 
and  to  learn  by  his  mistakes.  All  this  is  particu 
larly  true  of  the  one-act  play.  Not  long  ago  we 
knew  it  as  the  curtain-raiser  or  the  after-piece,  and 
all  theatrical  wiseacres  felt  sure  that  a  group  of 
one-act  plays  could  not  make  a  successful  program. 
To-day  the  one-act  play  in  this  country  is  popular, 
particularly  with  audiences  of  the  experimental 
theatres.  It  is  trying  to  phrase  many  moods  and 
varied  conditions  of  life.  It  is  attempting  many 
forms,  even  the  freest,  in  order  exactly  to  put 
before  an  audience  what  the  author  feels  about 
his  subject.  Already  there  is  a  considerable 
group  of  one-act  plays  written  in  the  last  ten 
years  which  hold  their  own  reasonably  well  when 
compared  with  the  general  output  in  the  same 
period  of  time  of  European  one-act  plays. 

The  contents  of  this  volume  are  offered  in  no 
way  as  masterpieces  or  even  as  models.  They,  like 
the  contents  of  the  companion  volume  of  plays 
first  produced  by  the  Harvard  Dramatic  Club,  are 
certainly  interesting  as  plays  originally  written 
in  a  course  in  dramatic  composition,  and  after 
trying  out,  rewritten  under  the  conditions  of  The 
47  Workshop.  They  are  offered  to  the  general 
public  as  a  small  contribution  to  the  widespread 
recent  accomplishment  of  the  one-act  play  in  this 
country.  They  have  at  least  stood  the  ultimate 
test  of  a  play  —  they  have  been  widely  given  and 

wellliked-  GEOKGE  P.  BAKEE. 

[  xxiii  ] 


THREE    PILLS    IN    A   BOTTLE 

A    FANTASY    IN    ONE    ACT 

BY 

RACHEL    LYMAN    FIELD 


CHARACTERS 

VTONY  SIMS 

v  THE  WIDOW  SIMS,  his  mother 

*  A  MIDDLE-AGED  GENTLEMAN 
His  SOUL 

A  SCISSORS  GRINDEK 

*  His  SOUL 

**  A  SCRUB  WOMAN 
/  HER  SOUL 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  November  16  and  17, 
1917.  Copyright,  1917,  by  Rachel  Lyman  Field.  Permission 
for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must  first 
be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College,  Cam 
bridge,  Mass.  Moving  Picture  rights  reserved. 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringements  of  the  dramatist's  rights,  as  follows: 

"Sec.  4966:  —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall 
be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be 
assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to  the 
court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance  and 
representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons 
shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im 
prisoned  for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


THREE    PILLS    IN    A   BOTTLE 

TIME:  Now  or  then.  PLACE:  Anywhere  or 
nowhere.  SCENE  :  A  room  in  the  Widow  Sims' 
house.  The  stage  is  •dim  when  the  curtain  rises, 
but  gradually  it  grows  brighter,  till  the  room  is 
full  of  yellow  sunlight,  falling  in  sharp,  fantastic 
patches  on  floor  and  walls.  The  day  is  so  warm 
that  the  two  windows,  a  small,  high  one  at  the  left, 
and  a  large  one  at  the'  back  which  overlooks  the 
street,  are  open.  Through  this  we  see  rows  of 
houses  opposite,  their  poimted  roofs  and  faded 
colors  making  a  brave  showing  in  the  hot  sun 
shine  of  the  street.  At  the  right  is  a  door,  open 
ing  on  the  street,  and  at  the  back  a  substantial 
cupboard  with  two  doors  is  built  into  the  left 
corner.  Over  this  is  a  shelf,  containing  various 
small  articles  —  a  few  toys,  some  bits  of  china, 
etc.  A  wooden  washtub,  large  and  green,  stands 
in  the  other  corner.  The  only  pieces  of  furniture 
are  a  table  and  two  chairs,  and  a  larger  chair 
drawn  up  close  to  the  window  at  the  back  center. 

In  this,  Tony,  the  Widow  Sims'  little  ten^year- 
old  boy  is  sleeping,  an  old  patchwork  quilt  wrapped 
about  him.  His  cheeks  are  very  red  and  there  are 
dark  circles  under  his  eyes.  At  intervals  he  moves 
restlessly,  muttering  vaguely. 

Presently  the  Widow  Sims  comes  tip-toemg  in. 
She  is  a  small,  colorless  person,  with  an  habitual 

[3] 


THREE    PILLS 

air  of  apology  for  something  —  she  is  not  quite 
sure  what!  The  door  creaks  to  after  her,  and 
Tony  opens  his  eyes. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [bending  over  him  regretfully] 
Dear,  dear,  't  is  a  pity  that  squeakin'  door  should 
'a  waked  you.  I  thought  you  'd  be  sleeping  all 
the  morning  while  I  'm  out  workin'.  [She  kisses 
him.  ] 

TONY.  Oh,  I  'm  not  sleepy,  only  hot  [turn 
ing  his  head  slowly  toward  the  window],  and  all 
the  houses  over  there  are  making  faces  at  me! 

WIDOW  SIMS  [shaking  her  head]  What  a  child ! 
[She  sighs  and  Jumbles  in  her  pocket.  Then  her 
face  brightens  as  she  pulls  out  a  small  glass  bottled] 
Never  mind,  Tony,  the  Doctor  's  just  been  giving 
me  a  fine  cure  for  your  fever  —  three  days  now, 
and  you  '11  be  well. 

TONY.  Three  days  ?  That 's  a  long  time  to 
wait! 

WIDOW  SIMS.  It  's  a  very  wonderful  cure  he 
said.  Three  pills,  one  for  each  day.  [She  holds 
out  the  pills  on  the  palm  of  her  hand.] 

TONY  [peering  at  them]  Yes,  I  can  see  them, 
but  what  will  they  do  to  me? 

WIDOW  SIMS.  He  said  the  yellow  one  will  take 
away  all  the  pain  from  your  head  [dropping  it 
in  the  bottle1] .  Heaven  be  praised  for  that !  The 
red  one  will  make  you  grow  tall  and  strong  [put 
ting  back  the  red  one]. 

TONY.     Tall  enough  to  reach  the  moon,  mother? 

WIDOW  SIMS.  When  you  take  the  brown  one 
your  eyes  will  no  longer  ache  [putting  back  the 
[4] 


IN   A   BOTTLE 

brown  pill]  and  the  near  things  and  the  far  things 
will  both  look  very  clear. 

TONY  [sitting  up  and  reaching  for  the  bottle] 
When  can  I  take  them?  Now? 

WIDOW  SIMS.  No,  no,  I  'm  to  give  you  one 
each  night  the  fever  lasts  [she  crosses  and  puts 
the  bottle  on  the  shelf]  —  first  the  red,  then 
the  yellow,  and  then  the  brown. 

[Tony  turns  away  wearily,  and  the  Widow  goes 
to  the  table,  putting  some  sewing  materials  in  a 
bag.] 

WIDOW  SIMS.  They  're  very  grand  pills,  Tony, 
and  I  paid  two  pounds  for  them.  That  's  a  great 
deal  for  a  poor  woman  like  me  to  pay ! 

TONY.     Is  it? 

WIDOW  SIMS.  Three  years  I  've  been  saving 
that,  but  you  don't  get  much  sewing  all  day,  when 
you  've  never  a  man  to  come  home  after  a  day's 
work  with  the  silver  in  his  pockets. 

TONY.  I  've  got  silver  in  mine.  [He  takes  out 
imaginary  money,  pretending  to  pile  it  on  the  sill. 
Widow  Sims  starts  at  his  words  and  takes  a  step 
towards  him,  then  stops  sadly,  and  goes  back  to 
the  table  with  a  sigh.] 

WIDOW  SIMS.  Well,  well,  I  must  be  off  now 
[gathering  up  her  things  and  going  toward  him] . 

TONY  [catching  her  hand  as  she  passes]  Where 
are  you  going  to-day?  To  the  big  house  that  is 
so  high  up  you  can  see  the  hills  humping  them 
selves  up  on  top  of  each  other,  and  farther  away 
the  sea  that  stops  just  where  the  sky  begins? 

WIDOW  SIMS  i,half  to  herself]  Was  ever  such  a 
boy  for  remembering?  [Kne'eling  by  him,  and 

[5] 


THREE    PILLS 

wrapping  the  quilt  about  him  more  carefully.] 
No,  it 's  not  there  I  'm  going.  And  what  '11  you 
be  doing  while  I'm  gone?  Do  you  want  your 
picture-book?  [Tony  shakes  his  head.]  Or  your 
glass  marble?  [Tony  shakes  his  head  again.] 
Or  your  tin  whistle? 

TONY.  No,  I  don't  want  any  of  them.  I  'd 
rather  play  with  my  friends. 

WIDOW  SIMS.     Friends? 

TONY   [absently]  I  have  so  many  friends. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [with  a  glance  of  despair]  Out 
of  his  head  again.  [She  strokes  his  forehead] 
It  's  the  fever  makes  him  so  queer.  [Brightening 
a  little]  Oh,  well,  the  pills  will  soon  be  setting  him 
right!  [She  kisses  him  and  turns  to  go]  I'll 
be  back  in^time  to  get  your  dinner.  Good-bye, 
Tony. 

TONY.     Good-bye,  mother. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [from  the  doorway]  Mind  you 
keep  the  coverlet  wrapped  round  you! 

[She  exits  reluctantly.  The  sound  of  her  key 
locking  the  door  is  distinctly  heard.  Tony  waves 
his  hand  to  her  as  she  passes  his  window,,  and  she 
throws  him  a  kiss.  He  sits  staring  out  into  the 
street.  Presently  steps  are  heard  on  the  pave 
ment,  and  the  sound  of  a  cane  tapping] 

TONY     [listening]     Oh,    someone's    coming  — 
someone  with  a  cane.     I  can  hear  it  tap-tapping. 

[He  leans  out  to  stop  the  passer-by,  who,  as  we 
see  him  through  the  window,  proves  to  be  a  tall, 
portly,  middle-aged  gentleman  of  fifty  or  more, 
dressed  in  a  beautiful  blue  coat  ith  wide  capes, 
a  green  vest  over  which  a  goll  watchchain  is 
[6] 


IN    A   BOTTLE 

draped  conspicuously,  and  a  high  hat.  His  air 
is  commanding,  and  he  starts  sharply  as  the  little 
boy  accosts  him.] 

TONY.  What  a  beautiful  cane!  And  the  sun 
shining  on  its  gold  top!  [Remembering  his  man 
ners]  Good-day  to  you,  sir. 

GENTLEMAN   [annoyed]  Good-day,  yourself. 

TONY.  Won't  you  come  in  and  play  with  me? 
I  'm  all  by  myself,  no  one  would  disturb  u^--.^^'  / 

GENTLEMAN.  Most  extraordinary  yotffij^rics- 
eoJ-i  Do  you  think  I  can  stop  and  chat  with  every 
impudent  little  ^boy  I  meet?  Indeed,  no,  I  have 
a  great  deal  of  business  on  hand !  [He  starts  to 
move  on.] 

TONY.     What  do  you  have  to  do? 

GENTLEMAN  [wot  entirely  without  pride]  I  have 
to  settle  my  accounts. 

TONY.     What  does  that  mean? 

GENTLEMAN.  Well,  counting  my  money  for 
one  thing.  That  takes  a  long  time  let  me  tell  you ! 

TONY.  You  must  have  a  lot  of  money  —  as 
much  as  two  pounds? 

GENTLEMAN  [backing  away]  Two  pounds? 
Two  pounds,  indeed !  Two  thousand,  and  more  — 

TONY.     How  did  you  find  it  all? 

GENTLEMAN.  I  did  n't  find  it.  I  worked  for 
it  —  worked  hard  all  day  long.  [Shaking  his 
cane  emphatically.]  When  the  lazy  fellows  were 
out  dancing  on  the  green,  or  lying  on  their  backs 
in  the  meadows,  7  stayed  indoors  and  added  long 
columns  of  figures,  and  now,  when  they  have 
hardly  a  copper  in  their  pockets,  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  count  my  money!  [He  moves  away.] 

[7] 


THREE    PILLS 

TONY.     Please  come  in  and  play  ? 
GENTLEMAN.     Certainly    not !      God   bless    my 
soul,  I  have  other  things  to  do!      [He  turns  to 

9°-} 

TONY.  Your — your  soul?  Why,  that  wouldn't 

be  busy  counting  the  money,  too,  would  it  ? 

GENTLEMAN.  God  bless  my  soul,  is  the  bey 
crazy?  [Turning  on  his  heel,  and  laughing  skep 
tically.]  I  don't  possess  such  a  thing! 

TONY.  Oh,  but  you  do.  You  said  so  twice, 
—you  said  [imitating  him],  "  God  bless  my  soul." 

GENTLEMAN.     That  was  merely  an  ejaculation. 

TONY.  I  never  heard  of  an  ejac —  an  ejac — , 
but  mother  says  everyone  has  a  soul. 

GENTLEMAN.     Rubbish ! 

TONY  [leaning  forward  with  both  hands  on  the 
sill]  Oh,  if  you  only  would  —  you  won't  be  using 
it,  you  know! 

GENTLEMAN  [pounding  his  cane  impatiently] 
Rubbish,  I  said,  rubbish! 

TONY  [putting  his  hand  out  to  detain  him] 
I  '11  promise  not  to  keep  it  long. 

GENTLEMAN  [is  about  to  push  the  hand  aside, 
then  seeing  Tony's  face  he  pauses  and  speaks 
grudgingly  in  order  to  get  away]  Well,  yes,  yes, 
yes,  then,  but  I  say  frankly  I  don't  know  what 
you  mean  by  all  this,  and  what 's  more,  I  don't 
believe  you  do,  either!  [Turning  with  an  Impa 
tient  jerk,  and  a  puzzled  shrug  of  the  shoulders] 
Good-day  to  you. 

TONY  [calling  after  him]  Good-bye. 

[The  Gentleman  passes  on  up  the  street,  grum 
bling,  thumping  his  cane  and  flapping  his  hand- 


IN    A    BOTTLE 

kerchief  in  annoyance.  As  Tie  disappears  from 
sight  a  feeble  little  cough  sounds  outside,  the  door 
is  pushed  slowly  open,  and  a  little  man  in  dilapi 
dated  garments  pauses  timidly  on  the  threshold. 
He  shuffles  in  uncertainly,  an  undersized,  under 
fed,  moth-eaten  specimen.  In  his  tattered  gar 
ments  he  is  a  ludicrous  and  half  fearful  sight. 
His  clothes  must,  at  one  time,  have  resembled  the 
Middle-Aged  Gentleman's,  but  they  have  fallen 
mto  decay;  his  coat  is  in  rags,  the  tails  of  it 
trail  behind  him  forlornly,  and  one  bare  toe  pro 
trudes  pathetically  from  his  worn  shoes.  For  a 
moment  Tony  is  half  afraid  of  him.} 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [querulously}  Well?  [Tony 
is  still  too  nonplussed  to  reply. }  [Gentleman's 
Soul,  watching  him  anxiously.}  What  are  you 
going  to  do  with  me?  [Triumphantly}  I  've 
got  away  from  him  anyway ! 

TONY.  I  say,  you  don't  belong  to  the  gentle 
man  who  just  passed  by?  The*  one  who  has  all 
that  money? 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [m  a  thin,  complaining 
whine}  I  should  say  I  do,  and  if  ever  a  soul  had 
a  stingy,  cross,  cantankerous  — 

TONY.  But  you  can't  be  his  Soul!  He  was 
big,  and  he  carried  the  most  beautiful  cane  with 
a  gold  top,  and  you  —  why,  you  're  all  in  rags 
and  tags  like  a  beggar.  You  're  so  little  and 
twisted,  your  knees  knock  together,  and  you  're 
very  pale! 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [in  a  plaintive  whine}  Well, 
whose  fault  is  it  if  I  'm  not  handsome?  I  can't 
help  that! 

[9] 


THREE    PILLS 

TONY.  I  'm  sorry,  but  you  did  surprise  me 
so  !  Won't  you  sit  down  ? 

[The  Gentleman's  Soul  seats  himself  gingerly, 
m  order  not  to  tear  his  very  tender  garments,  on  a 
chair.  He  huddles  his  knees  close  together  in  an 
effort  to  hide  his  rags,  tries  to  smooth  his  few 
wild,  straggling  locks  of  hair,  and  wheezes  a  little, 
his  breath  being  short.] 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  Oh,  you  don't  know  the 
suffering  I  undergo  with  that  man !  Why,  you  'd 
scarcely  believe  it,  but  he  has  n't  given  me  any 
thing  to  eat  for  days.  Consequently,  my  whole 
system  is  in  a  state  of  collapse.  If  you  had  n't 
happened  to  invite  me  in  to-day,  I  think,  I  really 
think,  I  could  n't  have  kept  on  being  his  Soul 
any  longer! 

TONY.  It  must  be  very  hard.  Can't  you 
make  him  do  anything  for  you? 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [drawing  his  chair  nearer 
Tony]  I  used  to  try  —  when  we  were  younger  — 
before  I  got  in  this  run-down  condition,  but  he 
was  always  thinking  of  his  investments  —  whether 
to  buy  this,  or  sell  that,  and  adding  up  one  col 
umn  and  then  down  it  again !  Even  in  my  younger 
and  healthier  days,  I  could  n't  distract  him,  and 
now  —  [He  sobs  brokenly,  and  waves  his  hands 
in  feeble  protest.] 

TONY  [still  puzzled  by  his  strange  attire]  And 
your  clothes  are  n't  a  bit  like  his ! 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.     I  guess  I  know  that!     If 
you  had  to  wear  them,  you  'd  realize  what  I  en 
dure!     [Pointing  to  his  decadent  trousers]  When 
they  first  began  to  get  shabby,  I  begged  him  to 
[10] 


IN   A   BOTTLE 

make  me  some  new  ones,  but  instead  he  began 
patching  them  —  see!  [Displaying  several  faded 
patches]  That  was  bad  enough,  but  now  he 
Jias  n't  touched  them  for  so  long  they  're  all  worn 
out.  _  I  shall  be  indecent  soon !  [His  voice  breaks 
pathetically.] 

TONY.  I  'm  so  sorry.  Can't  we  make  him  do 
something?  Doesn't  he  ever  notice  you?  [Gen 
tleman's  Soul  shakes  his  head  dolefully.] 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  Never !  I  'm  going  into 
a  decline.  [He  coughs  consumptively,  thumping 
his  ch^st.]  All  for  lack  of  food  and  clothes,  and 
-  and  encouragement ! 

TONY  [affected  by  seeing  him  so  completely 
unmanned]  You  would  n't  be  so  bad  if  you  could 
just  grow  a  little. 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  Ye-es,  but  I  'm  getting 
thinner  and  weaker  every  day. 

TONY  [struck  with  a  bright  idea]  If  you  got 
bigger  and  stronger  than  he  is  —  then  he  'd  have 
to  notice  you ! 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  Oh  —  oh,  when  he  was  a 
boy  we  were  just  the  same  size  and  we  had  the 
pleasantest  times  together.  That  was  before  he 
took  to  making  money. 

TONY.     What  did  you  do? 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  He  let  me  show  him 
things  out  of  doors  —  squirrels  playing  in  and 
out  of  the  branches  [he  tries  fe'ebly  to  imitate 
their  caperings  and  the  result  is  pathetic],  and 
the  silk  inside  chestnut  burrs,  and  pictures  in  the 
frost  at  the  roadsides.  We  could  always  tell 
stories,  too,  —  not  on  paper,  you  know,  but  here 

cm 


THREE    PILLS 

[tapping    his    forehead   meaningly].      Oh,    those 
were  delightful  days ! 

TONY  [enraptured,  repeating  his  former 
thought]  Now  if  you  grew  to  be  his  size,  you  and 
he  could  be  like  that  again. 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  What 's  the  use?  [In  an 
abandonment  of  woe]  Look  at  me ! 

TONY  [perplexed]  There  ought  to  be  some  way. 
There  's     Doctors  —  they     make    people    well  — 
they  give  them  pills  to  take.     [At  the  word  "  pills" 
he  catches  his  breath,  and  glances  at  the  bottle 
on  the  shelf.] 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL.  Well,  a  lot  of  good  that 
does  me,  when  I  haven't  any  pills. 

TONY  [pointing  eagerly  to  the  shelf]  But  I 
have !  I  have  a  pill  that  makes  people  big  and 
strong  — 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [beating  his  hands  together 
in  tremulous  excitement]  Are  you  sure? 

TONY  [nodding]  Mother  told  me  it  would. 
You  '11  grow  so  tall  that  at  night  you  '11  be  able 
to  reach  up  and  pick  the  stars  that  have  caught 
in  the  branches  of  trees !  Oh,  I  'm  glad  I  re 
membered.  [Pointing  to  the  shelf]  You  '11  have 
to  climb  on  a  chair  to  reach  them  —  there  in  that 
glass  bottle. 

With  difficulty  the  Gentleman's  Soul  drags 
over  a  chair,  clambers  on  it  feebly,  and  brings 
the  bottle  to  Tony. 

TONY.  A  red  one  she  said.  [Taking  it  out] 
Yes,  here  it  is ! 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [taking  it  in  his  hand  and 
scrutinizing  it]   You  're  a  very  kind  little  b< 
[12] 


A   BOTTLE 

TONY.  You  're  welcome  to  the  pill,  and  thank 
you  for  playing  with  me. 

GENTLEMAN'S  SOUL  [bowing  shakily']  Perhaps, 
when  I  've  got  my  growth,  and  he  's  all  nicely 
trained  again,  we  '11  be  coming  to  pay  you  our 
respects. 

TONY.     Good-bye. 

[The  Gentleman's  Soul  has  scarcely  gone  out, 
clasping  the  pill  in  his  hand,  and  the  sound  of  his 
little  cough  has  hardly  died  away,  when  a  buzzing 
noise  sounds  nearby,  mingled  with  the  cry: 
"  Knives  to  grind.  Scissors  to  grind."  This 
grows  louder  and  Tony,  alert  m  an  instant,  leans 
out  the  window.  A  Scissors  Grinder  appears,  a 
lean,  bent  fellow,  doubled  over  from  the  weight 
of  his  machine.  His  face  is  cracked  and  brown, 
with  small  black  eyes;  he  wears  a  worn  leather 
apron,  a  gay  handkerchief  round  his  throat,  and 
a  battered  cap  pulled  over  his  forehead.] 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  Knives  to  grind.  Scissors 
to  grind.  Bring  out  your  knives  and  scissors ! 
[He  stops  by  the  boy  and  adds  enticingly]  Make 
'em  nice  and  sharp  for  you !  [He  swings  his  ma 
chine  to  the  ground  and  starts  it.] 

TONY  [smiling]  Good-day  to  you.  What  a 
funny  wheel,  it  goes  so  fast !  I  wish  I  could  make 
things  all  sharp  and  shiny !  Oh,  Mr.  Scissors 
Grinder,  couldn't  you  come  in  and  see  me? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  Do  you  think  I  can  waste 
time  where  there  's  nothing  for  me  to  do?  I  must 
be  moving  on  hunting  for  knives  and  scissors  to 
grind. 

TONY.  It  must  be  fine  to  see  so  many  places ! 
[13] 


THREE    PILLS 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  It  's  not  so  bad  jogging 
along  out  in  the  country,  but  —  [making  a  grim 
ace  at  the  houses  across  the  way]  there  are  too 
many  houses  here,  and  the  pavements  are  hot  and 
hard  —  hard  on  shoe  leather  too !  [He  taps  his 
foot  sadly. ,] 

TONY.  But  there  's  lots  of  people  here,  and 
they  've  all  got  knives  and  scissors. 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  They  don't  make  -friends 
of  their  knives  and  scissors- — just  throw  'em 
away  when  the  blades  get  dull!  Well,  if  you 
have  n't  anything  for  me  to  sharpen,  I  must  find 
someone  who  has! 

TONY  [quickly]  If  you  're  so  busy  grinding, 
could  n't  you  let  your  Soul  come  in  and  play 
with  me? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER  [leaning  in  and  scrutinizing 
him]  Why,  I  'm  nothing  but  a  tramp,  without  a 
whole  shirt  to  my  back,  or  a  piece  of  silver  in 
my  pockets ! 

TONY.     Oh,  that  does  n't  matter. 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  You  're  the  strangest  fel 
low  I  ever  met!  [Entering  into  the  game]  My 
Soul !  That  's  hardly  my  line  of  trade,  —  [  Wink 
ing  good-naturedly]  not  much  call  for  it,  you 
know!  . 

TONY.     Oh,  but  you  're  going  to? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER  [assuming  a  businesslike 
air]  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Now  who  shall  I  say 
wants  it? 

TONY.     Tony  Sims,  if  you  please. 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  Well,  Tony  Sims,  where 
would  you  like  it  put,  sir?  [He  reaches  his  arms 
[14] 


IN   A   BOTTLE 

in  at  the  window  as  if  they  contained  something.'] 
A  trifle  bulky  he  is,  you  know ! 

TONY.     Oh,  put  him  in  here,  please! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  Perhaps  he'd  best  choose 
his  own  place.  [He  shakes  his  head  and  pretends 
to  take  the  Soul  out  again.]  He 's  a  strong- 
minded  Soul,  I  warn  you,  sir,  quite  unmanage 
able  at  times,  and  who  knows  that  better  than  I 
do?  [He  give's  Tony  a  grin  and  a  friendly  wink, 
and  goes  up  the  street,  clanging  his  bell  and  call 
ing]  Knives  to  grind.  Scissors  to  grind.  Bring 
out  your  knives  and  scissors  ! 

[Tony  watches  the  street  hopefully,  but  almost  V 
before  the  Scissors  Grinder  has  gone,  the  door  of 
the  corner-cupboard,  behind  Tony,  swings  open, 
and  a  man  bounds  in,  whistling.  He  is  tall,  nearly 
twice  his  master's  size,  neither  very  young  nor 
very  old;  his  face  is  jolly  and  brown,  with  twink 
ling  gray  eyes,  a  merrily  puckered  mouth  and  a 
pointed  chin.  His  costume  is  made  out  of  patches 
of  gay-colored  cloth,  like  a  jester's;  on  its  long, 
fantastic  points  hang  small  silver  bells  which  make 
a  tinkling  accompaniment  to  his  movements.  Upon 
seeing  Tony,  he  makes  a  low  bow  with  his  hand 
to  his  heart.  Tony  regards  him  in  wonder.  ] 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [laughing  at  Tony's 
expression]  Well,  my  fine  gentleman,  what 's  the 
matter  with  me? 

TONY  [hastily  recovering  himself]  Nothing  — 
that  is,  I  mean,  I  'd  no  idea  you  'd  be  like  this ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.      'T  is  a  bit  of  a  sur 
prise  at  first  —  shock,  I  might  almost  say !    Hon 
estly,  though,  I  'm  not  so  bad. 
[15] 


THREE    PILLS 

TONY.     I  should  say  not! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  Of  course,  my  suit 
is  rather  striking,  but  you  see  there  were  two 
kinds  of  material  to  start  with  [holding  out  the 
tails  of  his  jacket,  and  pointing  to  the  yellow  and 
black],  some  bright  and  some  dark,  and  so,  since 
neither  was  enough  for  a  whole  dress,  I  put  first 
a  patch  of  yellow  and  then  a  piece  of  black.  That 
was  my  idea,  and  don't  you  like  the  effect?  [He 
turns  about  so  Tony  may  see  it  from  every  angle.] 

TONY.  It 's  beautiful,  and  your  bells  sound 
the  way  birds  do  very  early  in  the  morning. 
Where  did  you  get  them? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [perching  himself  on 
the  edge  of  the  table  and  swinging  his  legs  to  and 
fro]  Whenever  I  make  somebody  laugh  I  can  have 
one.  They  're  not  so  easy  to  get  as  you  'd  think, 
when  Souls  so  seldom  have  a  chance  to  show  them 
selves.  Not  that  I  've  any  objection  to  my  mas 
ter,  though  once  in  awhile  he  does  get  in  my  way ! 
On  the  whole  we  're  very  happy  together. 

TONY  [studying  him]  You  're  much  taller  than 
he! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [laughing]  I  should 
say  I  am!  [He  suddenly  adds  to  his  height  by 
standing  on  the  table.]  I  tell  him  I  may  be  out 
growing  him  one  of  these  days ! 

TONY.     Your  bells  shine  so ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [leaping  down  from 
the  table  and  across  the  room]  That 's  because  I 
polish  them  every  night  with  the  sunlight  I  catch 
during  the  day. 

TONY  [in  surprise]  Sunlight? 
[16] 


A    BOTTLE 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL,  Oh,  sometimes  I 
use  bits  of  star-dust  that  have  strayed  down  here. 
It 's  a  little  harder  to  find,  but  it  keeps  them 
brighter. 

TONY.  I  've  often  tried  to  take  hold  of  sun 
shine,  but  it  was  so  slippery ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.     Yes,  I  know. 

TONY.  And  I  never  saw  any  star-dust  at  all. 
Where  do  you  find  it? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [confidentially]  In 
all  sorts  of  places:  on  window  sills;  behind 
shutters ;  in  flower  pots ;  and  once,  I  found  some 
in  an  ash-barrel  in  the  crookedest  alley  that  ever 
you  saw! 

TONY.     Do  you  suppose  I  could  ever  find  any? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  Perhaps,  but  you 
have  to  learn  how. 

TONY.     How? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  It 's  quite  an  art. 
You  must  really  always  be  on  the  lookout  for  it, 
but  you  must  n't  ever  seem  to  be ! 

TONY.  I  'm  going  to  try.  [Thoughtfully]  Do 
you  like  being  a  Scissors  Grinder's  Soul? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  I  would  n't  belong 
to  anyone  else !  We  're  such  friends. 

TONY  [hesitating']  But  he  —  he  was  n't  like 
you? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  Of  course,  we  are 
different,  but  variety,  you  know,  —  spice  o' 
life  and  all  that !  When  he  goes  out  with  his 
machine  strapped  on  his  back,  I  run  ahead  —  up 
all  the  hills  - 

[17] 


THREE    PILLS 

TONY.     What  do  you  do  that  for? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [laughing]  Why  to 
see  what 's  on  the  other  side,  of  course ! 

TONY.     And  then  what? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  Oh,  then,  I  look  for 
another  hill  to  climb ! 

TONY.     Aren't  you  ever  tired? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  I  should  say  not ! 
Besides,  I  have  other  things  to  do.  Whenever 
I  go  by  an  orchard,  I  must  blow  on  the  apples. 
People  wonder  and  wonder  what  makes  them  so 
red !  In  the  farmhouses  where  there  are  little  boys 
and  girls,  I  take  care  to  give  the  trees  a  shake,  so 
the  children  will  find  plenty  on  the  ground.  They 
never  guess  who  makes  the  apples  fall! 

TONY.  But  I  know  now!  And  what  does 
your  master  do? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  Oh,  he  laughs  at 
the  things  I  tell  him.  Sometimes  I  make  him 
songs  from  the  things  I  see,  and  he  hears  them 
all  the  time  he 's  grinding  people's  knives  and 
scissors. 

TONY.     Won't  you  sing  me  one? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  You  heard  him 
when  he  passed  just  now;  what  was  he  singing? 

TONY.  I  did  n't  hear  him  sing  anything.  He 
just  called  out  [imitating  him],  "  Knives  to  grind. 
Scissors  to  grind."  Just  like  that! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  Oh,  you  could  n't 
tell  that  inside  he  was  really  singing  a  song  — 
my  song!  I  '11  show  you  what  he  sang! 

[18] 


IN    A   BOTTLE 


THE  SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SONG 

Arranged  by  CHARLES  ROEPPER 


All    the  flow'rs  and  all    the     grass,  All    the  stir    of 
All    the  house-roofs  in    the     town,  Flat   or  point -ed 


wings  that    pass,  Crisp,  green  leaves  that  clap  their     hands, 
gray     or      brown,  All      the  watch -ful   win-dow      eyes 


Winds  that  blow  from  oth  -  er      lands,  Warm,  brown 
All       the    gild  -  ed    spires  that     rise,        Lit   -   tie 


moors   and       stars   that  shine,     Be  -  long     to   me,   yes, 
folk    who      fol    -  low         me   .  .    Mine  they  are,    Will 


rit.  p| 


each     is      mine,  On     the  roads    I       trav-el       O! 
al-ways    be         On     the  streets  I       trav-el       O!, 

[19] 


THREE    PILLS 

The  Scissors  Grinder's  Song 

All  the  flowers  and  all  the  grass, 

All  the  stir  of  wings  that  pass, 

Crisp,   green   leaves    that   clap   their   hands, 

Winds  that  blow  from  other  lands, 

Warm,  brown  moors  and  stars  that  shine, 

Belong  to  me,  yes,  each  is  mine,  — 

On  the  streets  I  travel-O ! * 

All  the  house-roofs  in  the  town 
Flat  or  pointed,  gray  or  brown, 
All  the  watchful  window-eyes, 
All  the  gilded  spires  that  rise, 
Little  folk  who  follow  me,  — 
Mine  they  are,  —  Will  always  be, 
On  the  streets  I  travel-O ! 

TONY  [clapping  his  hands]  Sing  me  another, 
do! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [leaning  agamst  the 
wall,  and  pressing  his  hands  to  his  head]  Not  — 
just  now. 

TONY.     What  's  the  matter? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [with  an  effort] 
Nothing  much. 

TONY.     Have  you  got  a  pain? 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  It  's  just  my  head 
j^  that 's  always  aching. 

TONY.  I  'm  so  sorry.  Why,  I  did  n't  think 
Souls  ever  had  headache. 

1  The  music  for  this  song  is  given  on  page  19. 

[20] 


IN   A   BOTTLE 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [coming  to  him  apolo 
getically^  I  never  did  in  my  younger  days,  but 
just  lately  the  constant  z-z-z  of  the  machine 
grinding  the  steel  blades  has,  well,  got  inside  my 
head,  and  I  can't  get  it  out. 

TONY.  But  I  thought  the  best  part  about 
being  a  soul  was  that  you  did  n't  have  to  stay 
with  your  master  all  the  time!  Anyway  you 
don't  have  to  grind  things  just  because  he  does! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  You  're  right  about 
that,  but  even  souls  forget  sometimes !  Once  I 
let  myself  listen  to  nothing  but  the  grinding,  and 
then  some  of  that  buzzing  got  into  my  head,  and 
there  it  stays.  Serves  me  right,  I  suppose,  but 
it  is  unpleasant.  [He  rubs  his  head  ruefully.'] 

TONY  [leaning  forward  and  holding  out  the 
bottle]  It  's  lucky  you  told  me  —  look  here ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [taking  his  head  out 
of  his  hands]  What 's  that? 

TONY.  Just  the  thing  to  cure  you.  See  that 
yellow  pill;  it  will  take  all  the  ache  out  of  your 
head! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [springing  up]  If  I 
thought  it  really  would ! 

TONY.  It  will ;  the  doctor  said  so.  [He  holds 
it  out  and  the  Soul  approaches] 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL.  But  you  've  only 
got  two!  [He  draws  back]  I  say,  you  Jd  better 
keep  it! 

TONY.  No,  you  take  it.  I  guess  I  don't 
need  it  so  very  much.  Besides,  there  's  one  left ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [taking  the  pill]  I'll 
make  you  the  happiest  song  anyone  ever  heard ! 
[21] 


THREE    PILLS 

TONY.  Oh,  Mr.  Scissors  Grinder's  Soul,  thank 
you  for  playing  with  me.  I  loved  your  song,  and 
I  'm  going  to  look  for  star-dust  everywhere ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER'S  SOUL  [kneeling  by  Tony 
and  taking  both  his  hands]  Oh,  I  should  be  thank 
ing  you,  little  boy.  When  my  head  is  clear  again, 
I  shall  make  a  new  song,  and  my  master  and  I 
will  come  and  sing  it  to  you  1  [He  shakes  his  bells 
and  runs  joyfully  out.] 

TONY  [calling  after  him]  Good-bye. 

[Tony  sings  softly  to  himself,  "  On  the  roads  I 
travel  O."  Soon  steps  are  heard  drawing  near, 
and  a  woman,  heavy  and  poorly  dressed,  comes  by. 
She  carries  a  tall  brush  and  a  bucket  on  her  arm. 
Her  skin  is  coarse  and  yellow,  and  her  features 
thick  and  blunted.  As  she  shuffles  by,  Tony  hails 
her.} 

TONY.     Good-day  to  you. 

WOMAN.     Good-day  to  you. 

TONY.     Where  are  you  going? 

WOMAN.     To  my  work. 

TONY.     What  do  you  do? 

WOMAN.  Oh,  sometimes  I  scrub  people's  floors, 
and  clean  their  windows,  or  wash  their  clothes. 
[Indicating  her  brush]  I  've  got  to  scrub  to-day. 

TONY.  That 's  pretty  hard  work  on  a  hot  day 
like  this ! 

WOMAN    [leaning  on  the  sill]    It  is,  indeed  - 
down  on  my  knees  slopping  soapy  water  over  the 
floors,  and  then  rubbing  it  off  again !     But  [sigh- 
ing]  when  you  've  done  it  as  many  years  as  I  have 
you  get  used  to  it ! 

[22] 


IN    A   BOTTLE 

TONY.     I  wish  you  'd  stay  here  with  me  instead ! 

WOMAN.  Dear  me,  boy,  do  you  think  I  've  got. 
time  to  waste  in  foolish  talk?  I  've  got  my  work 
to  do,  else  where  'd  I  get  the  money  to  buy  my 
bread  and  tea?  [She  moves  away.} 

TONY  [quickly]  You  '11  send  your  Soul  anyway, 
won't  you? 

WOMAN  [coming  back  with  her  hand  to  her  ear] 
What  was  that  you  said?  I  must  be  losing  my 
hearing ! 

TONY.     Your  Soul  — 

WOMAN  [incredulously]  Wants  my  Soul,  does 
he? 

TONY.     If  you  please. 

WOMAN  [chuckling]  Indeed,  if  that 's  all  you 
want,  you  're  welcome  to  it !  Only  don't  be  for 
getting  to  send  it  back  to  me !  Good-day  to  you ! 

[She  goes  off,  the  flapping  sound  of  her  shoes 
echoing  as  she  passes  up  the  street.  Tony  looks 
hopefully  towards  the  door,  but  it  does  not  open. 
Instead,  out  of  the  washtub  steps  a  small  figure 
dressed  in  soft  and  fluttering  green.  This  little 
person  dances  about  on  the  tips  of  her  toes,  her 
green  garments  catching  the  light  and  shimmering. 
She  advances  towards  Tony,  who  gazes  at  her 
speechless.  She  resembles  a  fairy,  perhaps  a  dis 
tant  relative  of  the  Irish  Leprecauns,  so  small  and 
dainty  is  she,  with  a  green  cap  on  her  head  like  a 
flower  turned  upside  down,  and  little  white  hands 
that  seem  to  have  a  language  all  their  own.] 

TONY  [gasping]  You  —  you  are  n't  hers  ? 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [laughing  with  a  sound  such  as 
you  may  have  heard  when  you  have  put  your  ear 


THREE    PILLS 

close  to  harebells]  Yes,  I  am,  don't  you  like  me? 
[She  makes  him  a  pirouette  and  curtsy.] 

TONY  [recovering  himself]  Why,  why  I  think 
you  're  the  most  beautiful  Soul  I  've  ever  seen ! 

[The  Woman's  Soul  blows  him  a  kiss  as  she 
takes  gay  little  runs  about  the  room.] 

TONY.  No  one  would  ever  have  thought  you 
belonged  to  her! 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  That  's  the  delightful  part 
about  Souls  —  people  can  never  tell  what  we  are 
like! 

TONY.  I  'm  sure  she  can't  dance  —  her  feet 
were  so  big,  and  in  such  queer,  flapping  shoes! 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  Of  course  she  can't!  She 
has  n't  got  dancing  feet ;  hers  are  much  too 
clumsy.  But  she  's  got  a  dancing  Soul  —  that 's 
me  —  and  I  'm  far  more  satisfactory !  When 
she 's  down  on  her  knees  on  those  wet  floors,  or 
scrubbing  the  dirty  clothes  [here  she  illustrates 
the  process],  she  just  has  to  call  and  I  come  and 
dance  for  her! 

TONY.     How  she  must  love  you! 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  She  says  she  could  n't  live 
without  me !  I  leave  her  sometimes,  though  never 
for  very  long! 

TONY.     Where  do  you  go  then? 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  Oh,  I  go  back  to  visit  the 
place  where  she  lived  when  I  first  came  to  be  her 
Soul  —  far  away,  over  the  great  green  hills  where 
the  pastures  go  down  to  the  sea. 

TONY.  I  saw  the  sea  once  from  a  high  window. 
Oh,  I  'd  like  to  visit  that  country !  What  do  you 
do  there? 

[24] 


IN   A   BOTTLE 

WOMAN'S  SOUL,.  First,  I  kiss  the  tips  of  all 
the  little  fir  trees,  to  make  them  grow,  and  I  find 
the  tiny  fairy  houses  she  and  I  built  once.  Then 
I  run  and  skip  in  the  dew,  and  I  hunt  for  little 
yellow  mushrooms.  They  are  really  gold  buttons 
if  people  only  knew  and  would  n't  swallow  them ! 

TONY.     I  '11  remember  not  to  ! 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  Sometimes  I  lie  down  by  little 
slate-gray  pools  hidden  among  tall  grasses,  and 
I  push  the  grass  aside,  so  the  sky  can  reach  those 
little  pools  and  make  them  blue  again.  [She  lies 
down  and  shows  him  how  she  does  all  this.] 

TONY.     Are  there  any  people  there? 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  I  was  just  coming  to  them. 
There  's  a  small  village  higher  up  above  the  downs, 
where  she  us,ed  to  live.  I  go  there  sometimes,  and 
then  I  can  tell  her  what  all  the  people  she  knew 
are  doing:  how  Phillip's  and  Kate's  rose-bush 
has  climbed  to  their  roof;  how  Dick  and  Molly 
have  a  new,  blue-eyed  baby  to  sleep  in  the  little 
yellow  cradle  by  the  doorway;  how  Nancy  keeps 
on  gathering  herbs  for  the  sick  ones ;  and  old 
Peter  still  sits  on  his  bench  watching  for  the  her 
ring  to  come  back  to  his  weirs.  [The  Woman9 s 
Soul  turns  away,  rubbing  her  eyes  as  if  they  hurt 
her.] 

TONY.  What's  the  matter?  You're  not  cry 
ing,  are  you? 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [shaking  her  head]  My  eyes 
hurt  me ;  that 's  all. 

TONY.  Is  it  because  the  day  's  so  warm,  or 
because  you  're  staying  here  instead  of  going  to 
her  country? 

[25] 


THREE    PILLS 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.     No,  they  're  always  aching. 

TONY.     But  what  makes  them? 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [hurriedly,  ashamed  to  confess 
it]  Well,  you  see,  once  when  she  was  scrubbing 
floors,  she  asked  me  to  dance  for  her,  but  I  felt 
lazy  and  would  n't.  Then  some  of  the  soapsuds 
flew  in  my  eyes,  and  I  can  never  wash  them  all 
out! 

TONY.  That's  too  bad,  I  don't  like  to  see 
your  eyes  get  all  red,  and  the  soap  must  make 
them  smart. 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [rubbmg  them']  It  does! 

TONY  [picking  up  the  bottle  and  eying  the  re 
maining  pill  doubtfully]  Maybe  the  pain  '11  go 
away. 

WOMAN'S  SOUL.  Oh,  you  don't  know  those 
soapsuds  —  they  're  in  to  stay  ! 

TONY.     Do  they  hurt  a  whole  lot? 

The  Woman's  Soul  mods  and  Tony  gives  a  last 
look  at  the  pill. 

TONY  [slowly']  I  Ve  got  a  pill  that  would  take 
the  pain  right  out. 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [rising  quickly]  Do  you  mean 
that? 

TONY  [holding  it  out]  My  mother  brought  it 
to  me  —  here  it  is.  [With  an  effort]  You  —  you 
can  have  it. 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [bending  over  him,  and  seeing 
the  empty  bottle]  But  you  have  n't  any  more  — 
I  could  n't  take  your  last ! 

TONY  [thrusting  it  in  her  hand]  No,  you  take 
it.  Perhaps  I  '11  get  another ! 

WOMAN'S  SOUL  [kissing  him]  I  '11  never  forget 
[26] 


A   BOTTLE 

what  you  have  done,  and  the  next  time  I  go  to 
the  country  over  the  hills,  I  shall  bring  you  back 
a  whole  bunch  of  harebells  full  of  dew! 

[She  disappears  into  the  tub.  Tony  looks  ap 
prehensively  at  the  empty  bottle.  Soon  his  mother 
goes  by,  unlocks  the  door  and  comes  in.  She  goes 
to  Tony,  feeling  of  his  head  and  hands.] 

WIDOW  SIMS.  Did  you  go  to  sleep  the  time  I 
was  gone? 

TONY  [chuckling  at  the  remembrance]  I  should 
say  not!  I  had  such  a  lot  to  do. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [taking  off  her  bonnet]  Why 
whatever  do  you  mean,  Tony? 

TONY.  All  the  ones  who  came  in  to  play  with 
me. 

WIDOW  SIMS.  Came  right  in,  did  they,  when 
I  locked  the  door  myself?  'T  was  only  dreams 
came  in  to  you! 

TONY  [firmly,  pointing  to  the  chair  and  table] 
They  sat  right  there. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [shaking  her  head]  Then  it 's  high 
time  you  took  the  first  pill.  [She  goes  to  the 
shelf,  and  gives  a  start  at  not  finding  it.  Then 
she  searches  more  thoroughly.]  I'd  have  sworn 
I  put  it  here  with  my  own  hands.  Tony,  you  've 
not  seen  the  bottle  the  Doctor  gave  me? 

TONY  [guiltily]  Here  it  is,  mother. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [stands  back  mystified,  looking 
from  Tony  to  the1  shelf  in  bewilderment]  He 
could  n't  have  reached  it,  not  even  on  a  chair, 
he  's  that  weak.  Queer  what  tricks  things  '11  play 
on  a  body!  [Going  to  Tony]  Come,  dear,  give 
it  to  me.  [She  takes  up  the  bottle,  stares  at  it, 

[27] 


\ 


THREE    PILLS 

giving  it  a  shake  to  be  sure  it  is  really  empty.] 
They  're  gone  -  [Crying  out]  Tony,  Tony, 
what  have  you  done  with  them? 

TONY  [nervously]  I  —  I  — 

WIDOW  SIMS.  You  never  were  one  to  meddle 
or  play  tricks  —  have  you  hid  them  or  swal 
lowed  — 

TONY  [simply]  I  gave  them  away  to  three 
friends  of  mine. 

[The  Widow  looks  at  him  for  a  moment,  spetfch- 
less,  then  she  sits  down  heavily  on  a  chair,  cover 
ing  her  face  with  her  apron.] 

WIDOW  SIMS  [weeping]  Tony,  Tony,  what  is  it 
you  're  saying? 

TONY.     I  'm  sorry,  but  they  did  need  them. 

WIDOW  SIMS.  What  have  you  done?  They 
would  'a  cured  you  of  the  fever.  It  '11  be  burning 
you  all  up  now,  and  where  '11  I  ever  get  another 
two  pounds  to  buy  you  more?  Oh,  what  shall  I 
do?  What  shall  I  do?  [She  begins  to  sob 
despairingly.]  , 

TONY.  I  don't  mind,  mother,  and  you  should 
have  seen  how  grateful  they  were ! 

WIDOW  SIMS.  There  he  goes  again ;  oh,  deary 
me,  what  's  to  become  of  him  now?  [Tony  looks 
distressed,  then  his  face  brightens  as  he  hears  in 
the  distance  the  Scissors  Grinder's  cry.  It  is 
more  a  happy  chant  than  before  and  swells  to  a 
kind  of  pcean  of  happiness.] 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  Knives  to  grind.  Scissors 
to  grind. 

TONY  [leaning  out  to  listen]  Do  you  hear  that, 
mother?     [She  pays  no  heed.] 
[28] 


IN    A   BOTTLE 

SCISSORS  GRINDER  [nearer]  Knives  to  grind. 
Scissors  to  grind. 

TONY.  Listen,  he  's  singing  his  thanks  for  the 
pill! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER  [still  nearer]  Knives  to 
grind.  Scissors  to  grind. 

TONY  [delightedly]  I  knew  it  would  cure  his 
headache ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER  [still  nearer  and  triumphant] 
Bring  out  your  knives  and  scissors ! 

TONY.     Oh,  mother,  is  n't  it  a  fine  song? 

WIDOW  SIMS  [wringing  her  hands]  Whatever 
do  you  mean,  Tony?  I  can't  hear  a  thing  but 
that  old  Scissor  Grinder's  ugly  noise !  [Scissors 
Grinder's  voice,  more  distantly]  Knives  to  grind. 
Scissors  to  grind. 

TONY.  But  you  're  not  listening.  He  said 
he  'd  make  me  the  happiest  song  he  could,  but  I 
never  thought  he  'd  be  well  so  soon ! 

SCISSORS  GRINDER.  Knives  to  grind.  Scissors 
to  grind.  Bring  out  your  knives  and  scissors ! 

[Tony  listens  till  the  cry  dies  away.  Widow 
Sims  rises,  and  goes  to  Tony,  taking  his  face  be 
tween  her  hands.  Then  she  moves  to  the  table, 
sobbing,  and  tries  to  go  on  with  her  work.  Tony 
watches  her.  Suddenly  the  Scrub  Woman  appears 
at  the  window,  a  bunch  of  flowers  in  her  hands. 
These  she  thrusts  in  front  of  Tony.] 

TONY.  Oh,  I  know  where  they  came  from ! 
They  grew  in  your  country  over  the  hills  in  the 
pastures  by  the  sea ! 

WOMAN.  What  a  queer  boy !  How  did  you 
guess  ? 

[29] 


J 


THREE    PILLS 

TONY.     Did  you  think  I  'd  forget  so  soon? 

WOMAN  [to  the  Widow  Sims]  My  sister  sent 
them  to  me  from  my  old  home.  I  've  brought  some 
for  your  little  boy. 

TONY.  Here  is  a  harebell.  I  knew  she  'd  bring 
me  one ! 

WIDOW  SIMS.  You're  very  kind  to  him.  Thank 
her  for  them,  Tony. 

WIDOW  SIMS  [to  the  Woman]  Talks  like  that 
all  day,  he  does. 

TONY.  And  there  is,  there  is,  a  drop  of  dew 
on  it! 

WOMAN.  Well,  now  but  suppose  that  was  just 
a  drop  from  my  soapsuds? 

TONY.  Oh,  I  know  better  than  that !  She  said 
it  would  be  full  of  dew ! 

WIDOW  SIMS.     Just  listen  to  him,  will  you? 

TONY.  I  'm  glad  the  pill  took  the  pain  out  of 
her  eyes.  Now  she  can  go  back  to  your  country, 
and  dance  for  you  all  the  time,  and  her  eyes  won't 
ever  smart  any  more ! 

WOMAN  [turning  to  go]  Well,  I  hope  you  '11 
be  feeling  better  in  the  morning.  [To  the  Widow] 
Queer  how  the  fever  makes  them  act.  [She  goes 
up  the  street.] 

TONY  [fondling  the  harebell]  See,  mother,  it 
can  dance  just  the  way  her  Soul  did!  [At  this 
the  Widow  sobs  afresh,  burying  her  face  in  her 
apron.  Just  as  her  wailing  grows  loud,  the  noise 
of  a  cane  tap-tapping  sounds  on  the  pavement, 
and  the  Gentleman  in  the  blue  coat  and  high  hat 
comes  by.] 

[30] 


IN    A   BOTTLE 

TONY  [calling  to  him]  I  hope  he  's  grown  very 
tall  by  now. 

GENTLEMAN  [starting  and  coming  to  the  win 
dow]  God  bless  my  soul ! 

TONY.  You  will  play  with  him  sometimes,  and 
not  count  your  money  all  the  time?  [At  this  the 
Widow  cries  more  loudly.] 

GENTLEMAN  [  thumping  his  cane]  What 's  all 
this  noise?  I  never  heard  such  a  racket! 

WIDOW  SIMS.     They  're  lost,  lo-st  — 

GENTLEMAN.    What's  lost?     Speak  up,  woman. 

WIDOW  SIMS.      Some  pills,  sir. 

TONY.  They're  not  lost.  I  gave  them  away. 
'  Your  Soul  took  one  himself,  don't  you  remember? 

GENTLEMAN  [to  the  Widow]  Don't  blubber  so! 
Is  thafr&s^  crazy? 

WIDOW  SIMS.  No,  sir,  it 's  the  fever  makes 
him  talk  so.  [Beginning  to  sob  again.]  The  pills 
would  'a  cured  him ;  now  he  '11  die  of  the  fever. 
Oh,  what  shall  I  do-o  — 

GENTLEMAN.  Rubbish!  [Thumping  his  cane 
and  addressing  the  Widow]  Go  to  the  Doctor's 
for  more  of  those  confounded  pills.  And  — 
STOP  THAT  NOISE! 

WIDOW  SIMS.     I  've  got  no  more  money. 

GENTLEMAN.  You  're  a  lazy,  good-for-noth 
ing,  thriftless  — 

WIDOW  SIMS.  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  work  hard  all  day, 
but  I  'm  a  poor  widow.  [The  Gentleman  turns 
on  his  heel,  tries  to  go  away,  and  then  wheels  about. 
Fumbling  in  his  pocket,  he  awkwardly  draws  out 
some  money  which  he  lays  on  the  window-sill.] 

GENTLEMAN.  There,  take  that  —  and  for 
[31] 


THREE    PILLS 

Heaven's  sake  —  STOP  THA T  'RACKET!     [He 

stumps  off,  muttering.  The  Widow  hurries  to  the 
window  and  leans  out,  calling  after  him.] 

WIDOW.  Oh,  thank  you,  sir!  God  bless  you, 
sir!  [Dropping  on  her  knees  by  Tony]  Tony, 
Tony,  now  I  can  buy  you  three  more  pills ! 

TONY  [smiling  to  himself]  His  Soul  must  have 
grown  very  big! 

CURTAIN 


[32] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO" 

AN    INDECOROUS    EPILOGUE 

BY 

HUBERT    OSBORNE 


"The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them; 
The  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones  ' 
JULIUS  CAESAR,  iii.  2. 


.*•' 


CHARACTERS 

DR.  JOHN  HALL,  .  .  Son-in-law  to  Wm.  Shakespeare 
THE  REV.  JOHN  WARD  .  .  Vicar  of  Trinity  Church 

JENKYNS A   schoolmaster 

ANNE  HATHAWAY 

MISTRESS  SUSANNA  HALL  |          Daughters  to 

MISTRESS  JUDITH  QUINEY  j   William  Shakespeare 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY 

THE  NURSE 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  November  16  and  17, 
1917. 

Copyright,  1917,  by  Hubert  Osborne. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any 
kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop  or  The  Theatre 
Workshop,  Knickerbocker  Theatre  Building,  New  York  City. 


'  THE    GOOD    MEN   DO" 

PLACE  :  "  New  Place"  Stratford-on^Avon. 
TIME:  April  23,  1616. 

SCENE:  A  living  room.  The  walls  are  of  oak 
beams  with  plaster  between;  the  ceiling  is  beamed. 

At  one  side  of  the  room  is  a  fireplace.  Be 
yond  this  is  a  door  leading  to  the  hall,  into  which 
opens  the  front  door  of  the  house.  At  the  back  of 
the  room  is  a  large  door  opening  into  an  inner 
room;  opposite  the  fireplace  is  a  door  leading  to 
other  parts  of  the  house;  above  this  is  a  large 
leaded  window. 

Near  the  fireplace  is  an  oaken  chest;  at  the 
back  of  the  room  is  a  cupboard;  in  front  of  the 
window  are  a  writing  desk  and  chair.  Near  the 
center  of  the  room  are  a  table  and  three  chairs. 

On  the  table  are  three  pewter  mugs,  pewter 
dishes,  and  an  oaken  flagon;  on  the  desk  are  a 
trinket  box,  an  ink  pot  m  which  stands  a  crimson 
quill  pen,  and  a  book.  There  are  curtains  at  the 
window. 

There  is  an  air  of  neatness  about  the  room  which 
suggests  that  the  owner  might  have  recently  put 
it  in  order  before  going  on  a  journey. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  dimly  lighted  stage 
is  empty.  A  fire  burns  in  the  fireplace;  a  ray  of 
sunlight  steals  through  the  drawn  curtams  and 
falls  across  the  floor. 

[35] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN   DO' 

In  the  distance  a  clock  chimes  the  hour,  then 
strikes  seven. 

The  Nurse  enters  from*  the  hall  carrying  some 
branches  of  apple  blossoms  in  her  arms.  She  is  a 
large,  motherly  person  of  at  least  seventy.  She 
goes  to  the  door  at  the  back  of  the  room  and 
opens  it. 

In  the  inner  room  is  seen  a  bed  on  which  lies  the 
body  of  a  man;  two  lighted  candles  stand  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed. 

The  Nurse  lays  the  apple  blossoms  on  the  bed, 
looks  about  the  room,  and  moves  the  candles  a  little 
nearer  the  bed. 

Jenkyns,  the  local  schoolmaster,  enters  from 
the  hall.  He  is  a  man  of  seventy. 

JENKYNS  [in  a  hushed  tone]  Nurse! 

NURSE  [coming  from  the  inner  room]  Aye, 
Master  Jenkyns. 

JENKYNS.     Has  anyone  been  here  since  I  left? 

NURSE.     No. 

JENKYNS.  His  daughters  should  have  come  by 
itow. 

NURSE.     Aye,  they  've  had  time. 

JENKYNS  [pointing  to  the  inner  room]  Have 
you  done  all  in  there? 

NURSE.     Aye. 

JENKYNS  [going  to  the  door  and  looking  in  at 
the  dead  man]  You  've  laid  him  out  in  his  taffeta 
doublet ! 

NURSE.     Aye,  Master  Shakespeare  was  fond  o' 
it  —  a'  always  wore  it  o'  j  ourneys.      [She  closes 
the  door  to  the  inner  room.] 
[36] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

JENKYNS.  He  told  me  it  was  made  in  London 
town. 

NURSE.  Aye,  just  afore  a'  came  back  to  live 
in  Stratford. 

JENKYNS.      It  must  have  cost  a  lot  of  money. 

NURSE.     A5  was  never  thrifty  o'  his  gold. 

JENKYNS.      He  was  open-handed  even  as  a  lad. 

NURSE.  That  a'  wras.  [She?  takes  up  the  dishes 
from  the  table,  leaving  the  mugs  and  flagon.]  I  'd 
best  set  about  tidying  the  house.  [She  points  to 
the  inner  room]  I  've  been  busy  in  there  since  a' 
passed  away. 

JENKYNS.  I  '11  wait  the  others  here.  [He  sits 
at  the  table.]  Exit  Nurse. 

[Mistress  Judith  Qumey  enters  from  the  hall. 
She  is  a  kindly  looking  woman  of  thirty-two.] 

JENKYNS  [rising]  Judith! 

JUDITH.     You  were  here  —  at  the  end? 

JENKYNS.  Yes.  Your  father  asked  for  you 
just  before  he  breathed  his  last. 

JUDITH.  I  would  I  hac(  been  here,  but  Dr. 
Hall  did  not  think  the  end  so  near  and  would  not 
have  Susanna  and  myself  risk  the  night  air  to 
come. 

JENKYNS.     Yes.     'T  was  sudden. 

The  Nurse  reenters 

NURSE  [seeing  Judith]  Mistress  Quiney ! 

JUDITH.  Nurse!  [She  takes  off  her  hat  and 
cloak.] 

NURSE.     Give    'em   to    me.      I  '11   put    'em   by. 
[She  takes  the  hat  and  cloak  from  Judith.] 
[37] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

JUDITH.     Thanks.  Exit  Nurse. 

JENKYNS.     Is  your  sister  coming? 

JUDITH.  She  started  out  with  me,  but  stopped 
to  leave  Betty  with  her  Aunt.  'T  would  not  be 
well  for  the  child  to  be  here  at  such  a  time. 

JENKYNS.  No.  'T  is  no  place  for  children 
with  the  dead. 

JUDITH.  She  '11  miss  the  stories  father  used  to 
tell  her. 

JENKYNS.     He  thought  of  such  odd  tales. 

JUDITH.      She  seemed  to  understand. 

'[Mistress  Susanna  Hall  enters  from  the  hall. 
She  is  a  large,  handsome  woman  of  thirty-five  — 
a  dominating  personality.^ 

SUSANNA.      Master  Jenkyns ! 

JENKYNS.      Susanna ! 

JUDITH.      Sister ! 

SUSANNA.  Judith!  [Turning  to  Jenkyns,  her 
manner  patronizing]  The  Doctor  tells  me  you 
have  been  most  kind  in  this  sad  hour. 

JENKYNS.     I  did  what  I  could  for  Willie. 

SUSANNA.  Father  always  relied  on  you  so. 
[To  Judith]  John  has  gone  to  the  Vicar's.  He 
will  be  here  as  soon  as  he  has  seen  him. 

The  Nurse  r centers. 

NURSE.     Mistress  Hall! 

SUSANNA.      Nurse ! 

NURSE  [pointing  to  the  inner  room]  A'  lies  in 
there. 

JENKYNS  [to  Susanna  and  Judith]  Come!  [He 
goes  to  the  door  to  the  inner  room  and  opens  it.] 
[38] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

JUDITH   [going  to  the  door]  Poor  father ! 

JENKYNS.     Look !     So  peaceful. 

JUDITH.     As  if  a  smile  were  playing  on  his  lips. 

SUSANNA  [in  the  door,  disapprovingly^  Yes. 
He  never  treated  life  with  fitting  dignity,  and 
meets  death  with  a  smile !  [Judith  kneels  by  her 
•father's  bed.] 

NURSE.      A'  made  a  noble  end  for  a'  that. 

SUSANNA  [frowning]  Those  gay  clothes  are 
hardly  fitting  for  a  shroud ! 

NURSE.  I  think  a'  wished  'em ;  a'  left  'em  out 
as  if  to  be  at  hand. 

SUSANNA.  Very  like !  He  gained  strange  no 
tions  from  those  player  bands.  [Taking  off  her 
hat  and  cloak]  Here,  Nurse,  put  these  by. 

NURSE  [taking  Susanna's  things]  Aye,  Mistress 
Hall. 

SUSANNA  [seeing  the  mugs  and  flagon  on  the 
table]  Nurse!  What  are  these? 

NURSE  [evasively]  Nothing.  They  're  from 
last  night. 

SUSANNA  [suspiciously]  Were  there  strangers 
here  ? 

NURSE.  Aye.  But  they  were  fine  gentlemen, 
with  well-turned  legs  and  — 

Judith  comes  from  the  inner  room,  closing  the 
door  after  her. 

SUSANNA  [interrupting  the  Nurse]  Friends  of 
father's? 

NURSE.  So  I  think.  They  came  afore  supper 
and  stayed  far  into  the  night.  Lord,  how  your 
[39] 


'THE   GOOD   MEN   DO' 

father  talked  !  'T  was  wonderful ;  I  could  n't  un 
derstand  a  word  a'  said.  Exit  Nurse. 

SUSANNA  [to  Jenkyns]  Knew  you  aught  of  thisp 

JENKYNS.  I  heard  they  left  their  horses  at  the 
Inn ;  and  from  their  talk  they  were  from  London 
town.  One  was  called  Jonson  and  the  other  Dray- 
ton,  if  I  remember  right. 

SUSANNA  [righteously  indignant]  Players! 

JUDITH.     Poor  father ! 

SUSANNA.  He  'd  promised  to  forswear  their 
company ! 

JUDITH.  He  tried,  but  still  he  could  n't  put 
them  from  his  mind. 

The  Nurse  re'ente'rs. 

SUSANNA.     He  was  so  weak. 

JENKYNS.  Nay,  only  thoughtless.  He  was  the 
same  when  a  boy,  but  he  meant  well  at  heart. 

NURSE.  Aye,  that  a'  did ;  a'  was  a  forward  lad 
i'  spite  o'  some  'at  said  a'  was  not  over  bright;  a' 
was  different,  'at  was  all,  and  some'at  sickly. 

JENKYNS.  Yes,  when  first  he  came  to  me  to 
school  I  had  great  hopes  for  him,  but  soon  he  got 
strange  notions  in  his  head  that  kept  him  from 
getting  on. 

NURSE  [picking  up  the  mugs  and  'flagon']  A' 
never  slept  well  o'  nights. 

SUSANNA  [looking  at  the  mugs]  Did  father 
overdrink  last  night? 

NURSE.  Nay,  that  a'  did  not  —  not  enough  to 
quench  the  thirst  of  a  flea  burning  in  hell. 

JUPITH.     He  bad  been  most  temperate  of  late- 
[40] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

JENKYNS.  'T  was  not  sack  that  brought  his 
fever  on. 

NURSE.  'T  was  his  scribblings  —  that  was  the 
trouble.  He  's  always  been  the  same  —  when  the 
parchment  and  ink  pot  came  out,  then  mischief 
was  afoot;  a'd  sit  all  night,  his  eyes  shining  like 
stars,  as  if  he  looked  into  another  world  and  saw 
strange  sights. 

SUSANNA  [scathingly"]  Writing  again! 

JUDITH.     He  told  me  he  had  started  a  new  play. 

JENKYNS.  He  hoped  it  would  bring  honor  to 
his  name. 

NURSE.  Aye;  scratch,  scratch,  scratch  [she 
rubs  the  mugs  together  with  a  sly  look],  until  a'd 
worked  a'self  into  a  burning  fever.  I  knew  how 
it  would  some  day  end.  Exit  Nurse. 

JENKYNS.     Is  there  aught  else  I  can  do? 

SUSANNA.  Thanks,  but  the  Doctor  will  be  here 
soon. 

JENKYNS.  I  go  to  meet  a  boyhood  friend  of 
your  father's  who  would  look  upon  his  face  again. 
They  had  not  met  in  years.  You  'd  not  rnind  if 
we  came  here  anon?  We'll  make  no  trouble. 

SUSANNA  [fatuously]  In  this  sad  hour? 

JUDITH  [stopping  Susanna]  A  friend  of 
father's,  Susanna.  [To  J.enkyns]  And  welcome. 

JENKYNS.     Thank  you,  Judith.     I  '11  be  back. 
He  goes  out  into  the  hall. 

SUSANNA  [looking  about  the  room]  'T  is  very 
orderly  in  here  for  him  ! 

JUDITH  [looking  in  the  cupboard]  Look,  every 
thing  put  to  rights ! 

SUSANNA.     So  it  is. 

[41] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN   DO' 

JUDITH  [going  to  the  desk]  I  think  he  must 
have  felt  the  end  was  near.  [Taking  up  the 
trinket  box]  His  trinket  box.  [Opening  it]  A 
lock  of  jet  black  hair. 

[She  takes  the  lock  of  hair  from  the  box  and 
shows  it  to  Susanna.] 

SUSANNA  [bitterly]  A  remembrance  of  one  of 
his  many  loves !  [She  looks  in  the  trinket  box  and 
takes  out  a  letter.]  Judith,  a  letter  with  the  royal 
arms!  [Opening  it]  From  the  King! 

JUDITH.     The  King!     How  came  father  by  it? 

SUSANNA  [in  a  matter-of-fact  tone]  He  must 
have  found  it  somewhere  in  London.  [Opening 
the  desk]  His  will  should  be  in  here. 

JUDITH.  Had  he  changed  it  and  made  mention 
of  mother? 

SUSANNA.     Yes,  a  week  ago. 

JUDITH.     Then  she  '11  not  feel  so  bitter. 

SUSANNA  [taking  a  manuscript  from  the  desk] 
Here  's  parchments ! 

JUDITH.     What  do  they  say? 

SUSANNA  [looking  over  the  manuscript]  There 
is  much  written  here ;  but  't  is  of  no  consequence 
—  only  another  play !  'T  is  not  finished  yet. 
Here  on  the  last  page  is  writ  [reads]  :  "  Does  no 
one  understand?  Here  at  the  journey's  end  I  find 
the  recompense  is  —  just  the  quest."  [Putting 
the  manuscript  back  in  the  desk]  There  is  no 
sense  to  that.  At  the  journey's  end  the  quest 
must  needs  be  o'er ! 

JUDITH.     Perhaps  he  meant  his  life  had  been 
in  vain;  he  had  been  sad  of  late. 
[42] 


"  THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

SUSANNA.  Nay,  't  is  but  the  vagaries  of  a  fail 
ing  mind. 

JUDITH.     But  yet  —  I  seem  to  see. 

SUSANNA  [taking  another  parchment  from  the 
desk]  Here  is  the  will. 

JUDITH.     Aught  else? 

SUSANNA.  No.  [She  puts  the  will  back  in  the 
desk.]  The  desk  has  been  lately  put  to  rights. 
[Thinking]  The  players  here  —  his  best  suit  put 
out  as  if  to  wear  —  the  cupboard  put  in  order  — 
a  new  play  begun  —  !  [Realizing  what  had  been  in 
Shakespeare's  mind]  Judith,  father  was  planning 
to  return  to  London  and  the  theater ! 

JUDITH.     Yes,  so  it  would  seem. 

SUSANNA.  After  all  we  'd  done  to  make  him 
happy  here!  [Bitterly]  Had  he  not  besmirched 
our  name  enough  already  without  returning  to 
that  sinful  life!  [With  determination]  Well,  'tis 
o'er;  the  future  rests  with  us. 

JUDITH.  Perhaps  't  is  best  the  end  came  when 
it  did. 

SUSANNA.     Yes,    God    was    kind  —  to    him  — 
and  us! 

[Anne  Hathaway  enters  from  the  hall.  She  is 
a  woman  of  sixty.] 

ANNE.     Daughters ! 

SUSANNA  [surprised  at  seeing  her]  Mother! 

ANNE.  Aye,  Sue ;  draw  me  a  chair  by  the  fire. 
'T  was  a  long  walk  from  my  cottage  and  I  am 
cold  and  tired. 

SUSANNA   [taking  a  chair  from  the  table  and 
placing  it  before  the  fire]  Come,  rest  a  while. 
[43] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

* 

ANNE  [sitting]  That's  the  good  child.  [To 
Judith]  Well,  girl,  have  you  naught  to  say  to 
your  mother? 

JUDITH.     You  —  here! 

ANNE.      And  why  not? 

JUDITH.     But  —  father  — 

ANNE.  Aye,  "  father."  You  always  favored 
him  and  took  his  part  against  me! 

JUDITH.     Dear  mother! 

ANNE.  Nay,  Judy,  't  will  do  no  good  to  speak. 
I  know  how  quick  you  were  to  leave  me  and  go  to 
your  father  when  he  came  back  here  to  live  in 
Stratford. 

JUDITH.     But  he  was  all  alone. 

ANNE.  'T  was  well  you  married  and  got  rid  of 
his  bad  counselings  or  you  'd  have  got  like  him ! 

JUDITH.     Mother,  he  did  not  hate  you. 

ANNE.  Ah,  do  not  talk  to  me.  I  know  the 
man  he  was ! 

The  Nurse  r .centers. 

NURSE  [seeing  Anne,  surprised]  Mistress  Hath 
away  ! 

ANNE.  "  Hathaway  "  —  nay,  Mistress  Shake 
speare  !  He  may  have  denied  me  his  name  as 
his  wife,  but  he  can't  stop  me  enjoying  my  rights 
as  his  widow. 

JUDITH.     Mother,  please ! 

ANNE.  Nurse,  prepare  the  best  room  for  me! 
[The  Nurse  looks  questioningly  at  Judith.] 

ANNE.  Well  ?  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  This 
is  my  husband's  house,  and  I  am  mistress  here! 

NURSE.  Aye,  so  I  see!  Exit  Nurse. 

[44] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

JUDITH.  Mother,  he  lies  in  there.  [She  points 
to  the  inner  room.]  Will  you  not  look  at  him? 

ANNE.  Look  on  his  face?  Nay,  that  I  '11  not. 
I  would  I  never  had !  'T  was  a  sad  day  for  me 
when  Funk  Sandells  and  John  Richardson  at  my 
father's  wish  forced  him  to  marry  me.  [  With  an 
evident  relish  of  combat]  If  he  'd  had  a  drop  of 
blood  in  his  liver,  he  'd  have  broke  their  heads 
for  their  pains ! 

JUDITH.     Mother. 

ANNE  [garrulously]  But  they  meant  well ;  they 
thought  it  for  my  good.  Aye,  and  they  had  to 
put  themselves  under  surety  for  forty  pounds  to 
the  Bishop  should  it  later  be  found  that  he  had 
meddled  with  another  lass.  [Amused]  Forty 
pounds  for  him ;  he  was  not  worth  the  half ! 
[Spitefully]  'T  was  Mistress  Whateley's  doings. 
She  claimed  they  were  betrothed.  [Humorously] 
Would  she  had  got  him.  I  could  not  wish  her 
worse ! 

JUDITH.  Mother,  do  not  forget;  he  was  our 
father. 

ANNE.  Yes,  so  was  he  when  he  kept  the  house 
awake  nights  with  his  scribblings ;  so  was  he  when 
he  wrote  foul  verses  to  hang  on  the  gates  of  honest 
gentry  and  disgraced  our  name ;  so  was  he  when 
he  ran  away  to  London  and  left  you  without  a 
thought !  Did  your  father  think  of  you  when  you 
were  starving  and  I  had  to  borrow  forty  shil 
lings  of  my  father's  shepherd  to  buy  you  food! 
[Proudly]  Aye,  and  I  brought  him  a  dower  of 
six  pounds,  thirteen  shillings  and  four  pence ! 
Don't  talk  to  me  of  your  father,  girl ! 
[45] 


1  THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

The  Nurse  reenters. 

ANNE.     Well,  is  my  room  prepared? 

NURSE.     Aye,  't  is  ready. 

ANNE.  I'll  have  a  look  at  it.  [Rises.]  And, 
Nurse,  I  'd  have  some  food.  I  'm  almost  famished 
from  my  walk. 

NURSE.      I  '11  get  you  some'at.  Exit  Nurse. 

ANNE.      Come,  Sue,  show  me  the  way. 

SUSANNA.     Yes,  mother. 

Exeunt  Anne  and  Susanna. 

[Judith  stands  looking  into  the  fire.] 

Jenkyns  reenters  from  the  hall,  with  Mistress 
Whateley,  a  woman  of  fifty,  small  and  frail,  her 
face  still  retaining  much  of  its  youthful  beauty; 
she  is  a  "  Viola  "  grown  old. 

JENKYNS.  Come,  we  are  alone.  He  lies  in 
there. 

JUDITH  [hearing  Jenkyns'  voice]  Master  Jen- 
kyns! 

JENKYNS.     Yes,  Judith ! 

JUDITH.     You  've  brought  my  father's  friend? 

JENKYNS  [turns  to  go,  motioning  Mistress 
Whateley  to  follow  him]  We  '11  come  back  later. 

JUDITH.  You  may  see  him  now.  [Turning  and 
seeing  Mistress  Whateley]  Mistress  Whateley ! 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.     You  know. 

JUDITH.     Yes. 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  Do  not  make  me  go 
until  I  see  him  once  again. 

JUDITH.     But,  mother ! 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  She  can't  deny  me  that. 
[46] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN   DO' 

I  have  not  seen  him  since  —  since  we  walked  in 
Arden  Wood.  'T  was  spring;  the  May  in  bloom 
as  it  is  now ;  the  moon  was  stealing  through  the 
evening  mists ;  a  nightingale  was  singing  in  the 
copse ;  and  then  they  came  —  and  took  him  from 
me. 

JUDITH.     The  night  he  wed  my  mother. 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  I  did  not  mean  to  bring 
that  to  your  mind. 

JUDITH.      'T  is  not  a  pleasant  story. 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY  [coming  to  Judith]  Let 
me  look  at  you.  You  favor  him.  You  have  your 
father's  eyes.  I  've  heard  you  loved  him  dearly. 
So  did  I.  The  love  we  both  bear  him  should  be 
a  bond  between  us.  Can't  we  be  friends? 

JUDITH.      I  think  we  are. 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  Judith.  [She  takes 
Judith's  hands  in  hers.]  Then  I  may  see  him? 

JUDITH.     Master  Jenkyns  will  take  you. 

JENKYNS.  Come.  [He  leads  Mistress  Whate- 
ley  to  the  inner  room.  Judith  follows  them  and 
stands  in  the  doorway.  The  chimes  strike  the 
quarter  hour.  Anne  is  heard  approaching.  Ju 
dith  closes  the  door  to  the  inner  room.] 

Anne  and  Susanna  reenter. 

ANNE.  Where  is  the  Nurse?  Would  she  let 
me  starve? 

JUDITH.      She  '11  be  here  presently. 

ANNE.  Presently,  huh!  This  house  is  badly 
run.  When  I  take  hold  there  '11  be  some  change, 
you  '11  see ! 

JUDITH.     Do  you  like  your  room? 
[47] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

ANNE.  'T  will  do,  though  somewhat  dark. 
The  mulberry  tree  by  the  window  keeps  out  the 
sun.  I  '11  have  it  cut  away. 

SUSANNA.  We  '11  talk  about  that  later,  mother, 
dear. 

ANNE  [defiantly]  That  we  shall!  [Garrulously] 
The  stairs  are  dusty ;  the  hallway  's  not  in  good 
repair.  I  'm  disappointed  in  the  place.  JT  is  not 
so  grand  in  spite  of  all  Will's  airs !  I  'd  as  leave 
have  my  cottage. 

SUSANNA.  I  'm  sure  you  would,  mother. 
You  've  lived  there  so  long  you  'd  not  be  happy 
long  away. 

ANNE  [suspiciously]  Ah,  think  you  so,  Sue? 

SUSANNA.  'T  will  make  a  pleasant  change  for 
you  to  come  here  and  visit  for  the  day. 

ANNE.     Visit,  say  you? 

SUSANNA.  You  must  come  often.  The  Doc 
tor  's  always  glad  to  have  you  with  us. 

ANNE  [her  anger  rising]  That 's  kind  of  him  ! 

SUSANNA.     And  Betty  loves  to  have  you. 

ANNE.     Yes  ? 

SUSANNA.  This  is  a  fitting  house  for  one  of 
John's  position,  and  well  located. 

ANNE  [shrewishly]  So,  Sue,  you  have  your 
mind  upon  the  place! 

SUSANNA.  You  'd  not  be  happy  here ;  't  would 
make  you  think  of  him! 

ANNE  [sneeringly]  You  're  growing  very 
thoughtful  of  my  happiness.  [With  determina 
tion]  But  here  I  am,  and  here  I  stay! 

SUSANNA.     Now,  mother ! 

ANNE.     I  see  you  have  your  plans  all  made ! 
[48] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

SUSANNA  [seeing  that  tact  will  be  of  no  avail] 
Father  wished  me  to  live  here ! 

ANNE  [angrily]  Girl,  I  '11  have  you  know  this 
is  my  house! 

SUSANNA  [showing  some  of  her  mother's 
shrewishness]  Think  you  so? 

ANNE.      'T  is  mine  by  my  dower  rights ! 

SUSANNA.     No,  mother,  it  is  not ! 

ANNE.     And  why,  I  'd  like  to  know  ? 

SUSANNA  [deliberately]  Because  it 's  mine ! 

ANNE  [jumping  up]  You  lie,  you  fro'ard 
wench ;  you  lie  ! 

SUSANNA  [with  aggravating  composure']  Mother, 
be  calm ;  these  scenes  are  out  of  place ! 

ANNE.  "  Be  calm !  "  "  Be  calm !  "  while  I  am 
robbed  by  my  own  flesh  and  blood  —  by  one  I  'd 
scrimped  and  starved  to  feed !  "  Be  calm,"  say 
you !  Ah !  there  's  your  father  speaking  in  you 
now!  [With  cunning]  How  came  you  by  the 
house?  Aye,  tell  me  that? 

SUSANNA.     Father  left  it  to  me  by  his  will. 

ANNE  [flaring  up]  I  '11  not  believe  it  without 
proof!  [Self -pityingly]  But  what  could  I  expect? 
He  's  always  been  the  same.  When  he  bought  his 
house  in  Blackfriars,  he  barred  my  dower  in  the 
bill  of  purchase,  and  now  he  'd  take  the  roof  from 
o'er  my  head! 

SUSANNA.     You  have  your  cottage. 

ANNE.     A   plague   upon   my   cottage!      Get   I 

naught  of  his?    What  of  New  Place  here ;  his  land 

hard  by,  a  hundred  and  seven  acres  if  there  's  a 

foot;  his  house  in  Henley  Street;  his  interest  in 

[49] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

the  tithes;  his  property  in  London?  Get  I  none 
of  these? 

JUDITH  [trying  to  pacify  her]  Father  changed 
his  will  a  week  ago  and  made  mention  of  you  in  it. 

ANNE  [hopefully]  Now,  did  he  that?  At  last 
he  had  some  shame!  What  did  he  leave  me? 

SUSANNA.     He  did  not  tell  me. 

ANNE.  Well,  where  's  the  will?  [Greedily]  I  'd 
see  what  I  do  get ! 

JUDITH  [getting  the  will  from  the  desk]  I  '11 
fetch  it,  mother. 

ANNE.     Quick,  girl,  quick! 

JUDITH.      Here  it  is. 

ANNE  [petulantly]  You  know  I  cannot  read. 

SUSANNA.  Give  it  to  me.  [She  takes  the  will 
from  Judith.] 

ANNE.      Tell  me  what  it  says. 

SUSANNA.     Let  me  see. 

ANNE.     Yes. 

SUSANNA.      Here  's  your  name. 

ANNE.     Go  on !    Go  on ! 

SUSANNA  [reads]  "  I  give  to  my  wife  — 

ANNE.  Why  do  you  pause?  Is  it  something 
you  want  for  yourself? 

SUSANNA  [reads]  "  I  give  to  my  wife  my  second 
best  bed,  with  the  furniture." 

ANNE.     You  read  not  true. 

SUSANNA.      'T  is  written  here. 

ANNE.     Let  me  see. 

SUSANNA.  Look  —  here.  [She  points  out  the 
line.]  Written  in  between  the  lines. 

ANNE  [in  a  towering  rage]  His  second  best  bed  ! 
I  '11  not  believe  it.  Would  that  I  could  read ! 
[50] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

'T  is  some  jest  you  play ;  —  but,  yet,  't  is  like  his 
tricks.  Oh,  woe  is  me.  I  am  a  jilted  wife  —  the 
scorn  of  womankind !  I  warrant  it  was  a  bed  he 
never  slept  in !  And  were  he  still  alive  he  'd  never 
sleep  again  in  peace.  I  'd  see  to  that.  Nor  shall 
he  rest  in  peace  within  the  grave !  My  curse  shall 
rest  upon  him !  I  '11  recall  his  past  and  make  his 
name  again  a  by-word  here  in  Stratford! 

Mistress  Whateley  and  Jenkyns  come  from  the 
inner  room  on  hearing  Anne's  angry  voice. 

ANNE.  The  lying  knave;  the  tavern  lout;  a 
poacher,  banished  hence ;  a  player ;  a  rogue ;  a 
vagabond ! 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.      Anne,  stop! 

SUSANNA.     Mistress  Whateley ! 

ANNE  [turning  on  her]  You!  —  Get  you  gone! 
Get  you  gone,  I  say ! 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  Not  yet.  [There  is 
something  in  her  simple  dignity  that  quiets  Anne.] 
Anne,  I  said  naught  to  you  when  you  took  him 
from  me.  For  thirty-five  years  I  've  held  my 
peace,  but  now  I  do  not  go  until  I  've  had  my 
say ! 

ANNE.  You  think  to  shame  me  —  to  turn  my 
daughters'  love  to  hate  ?  Well,  we  '11  see.  I  can 
give  as  good  as  you. 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  I  know  your  waspish 
tongue  of  old.  'T  will  do  no  good  to  use  it  now. 

ANNE  [changing  her  tack]  You  come  to  taunt 
me  when  my  heart  is  broke.  Oh,  what  I  've  had 
to  suffer  through  that  man  —  his  lack  of  kindli 
ness,  his  lawless  ways. 

[51] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO" 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  Had  you  not  meddled 
in  his  life  his  story  would  be  different. 

ANNE.  Meddled!  I?  [Relishing  the  thought 
of  her  past  conquests.]  'T  was  he  that  did  the 
meddling.  With  honied  words  made  me  forget  my 
maiden  modesty ;  and  when  he  'd  wrought  the 
wrong,  't  was  right  that  he  should  save  me  from 
disgrace. 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  Made  you,  Anne!  Do 
not  lie  unto  yourself.  Made  you!  He  a  lad  of 
seventeen  and  you  a  grown  woman! 

ANNE  [flaring  up]  A  grown  woman !  She 
taunts  me  with  my  age ! 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  You  tricked  him  into 
marrying  you,  knowing  that  he  did  not  love  you. 
You  made  no  home  for  him  that  loved  the  little 
niceties  of  life,  but  made  him  live  in  squalor.  You 
drove  him  from  you  by  your  nagging  tongue  to 
taverns  and  low  company.  Your  jealous  tantrums 
made  banishment  a  happy  liberty ! 

ANNE.  I  did  not  drive  him  hence.  He  always 
wished  for  London  and  its  easy,  sinful  ways,  the 
lazy  lout ! 

MISTRESS  WHATELEY.  Easy !  There  alone, 
without  friends,  without  money,  he  could  not 
choose  his  work  but  needs  must  take  what  first 
should  come  to  hand.  If  that  was  the  theater  I 
cannot  hold  him  wrong.  It  was  the  only  means 
he  had  to  live.  You  were  his  wife.  You  could 
have  helped  him  much.  Your  love  should  have 
been  the  inspiration  of  his  life  and  spurred  him 
on  to  honorable  fame.  Instead,  you  drove  him  to 
his  worst  and  wrecked  the  promise  of  his  youth. 
[52] 


"THE    GOOD    MEN   DO' 

What  he  was  you  made  him.  What  sins  are  his, 
they  are  upon  your  head.  [Her  strength  is  spent.] 
Master  Jenkyns,  take  me  home.  [She  takes  Jen 
kyns'  arm  weakly.'} 

Exeunt  Mistress  Whateley  and  Jenkyns. 

ANNE  [turning  on  Susanna  and  Judith  in  her 
rage]  Nice  daughters,  you,  to  leave  me  to  her 
wrath.  I  who  never  did  a  person  harm !  And  this 
is  my  reward.  [She  starts  to  cry.] 

JUDITH.     Nay,  mother,  do  not  fret. 

ANNE.     And  if  I  do,  who  cares ! 

The  Nurse  reenters 

NURSE.      The  Doctor  's  coming  up  the  path. 

SUSANNA  [quite  composed]  Thank  you,  Nurse, 
we  '11  wait  him  here. 

NURSE.     Aye.  Exit  Nurse. 

JUDITH.  John  's  coming,  mother ;  dry  your 
eyes. 

ANNE.  I  have  good  cause  to  weep  —  a  widow 
-  left  alone ! 

SUSANNA  [sharply]  Come,  try  to  make  some 
show  of  dignity ! 

Dr.  Hall  enters,  a  thickset,  smug,  solid,  middle- 
class  Englishman  of  about  forty. 

DR.  HALL  [importantly]  I  come  from  the  Vicar. 

JUDITH.     Would  he  listen? 

SUSANNA  [fatuously]  John's  position,  as  lead 
ing  physician  of  Stratford,  would  have  much 
weight,  I  'm  sure. 

DR.  HALL  [smugly]  I  think  it  did,  my  dear. 
[53] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO" 

[To  the  others']  The  Vicar  was  most  kind  and  will 
help  us  in  every  way  he  can  to  quiet  talk  of 
the  circumstances  of  your  father's  marriage,  his 
banishment  from  here,  and  his  life  in  London.  As 
tithe  owner  he  is  privileged  to  be  buried  within 
the  church;  to  this  the  Vicar  will  make  no  objec 
tion.  And  his  advice  is  to  destroy  all  evidence 
of  your  father's  connection  with  the  theater. 

SUSANNA.      That  is  wisely  said. 

DR.  HALL.  Then  let  us  now  begin.  Have  you 
been  through  his  effects? 

SUSANNA.     He  had  put  everything  to  rights. 

DR.  HALL.  That  is  well ;  't  will  save  much 
trouble. 

SUSANNA.  His  will  and  an  unfinished  play  is 
all  we  found. 

DR.  HALL.  He,  too,  must  have  wished  the  past 
forgot. 

ANNE.     And  so  he  might. 

DR.  HALL.     Let  me  have  the  will. 

ANNE.  Yes,  look  at  it  and  see  the  shame  he  's 
put  upon  me ! 

JUDITH  [getting  the  will  and  the  play  from  the 
desk]  Here  it  is,  and  the  unfinished  play. 

DR.  HALL  [taking  the  will]  I  '11  keep  the  will. 
Put  the  play  by.  [Judith  lays  the  play  on  the 
table.]  The  Vicar  will  be  here  presently  to  read 
a  prayer. 

ANNE.     And  why  should  he  do  that? 

DR.  HALL.  As  Master  Shakespeare  did  not  re 
ceive  the  last  rites  of  the  Church,  I  thought  it 
would  look  well  and  cause  favorable  report. 

ANNE.     Favorable  report  of  him,  and  what  of 

[54] 


"THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

me?  Aye,  tell  me  that?  Shall  I  be  painted  as 
a  shrewish  wife  while  him  you  hold  up  as  a  model 
man  —  a  true,  kind,  loving  and  long-suffering  hus 
band  !  Is  that  your  plan  ?  Well,  that  you  '11  not. 
I  '11  tell  his  wilfulness  unto  the  world  and  let  them 
know  the  kind  of  man  he  was ! 

JUDITH  [trying  to  quiet  her]  Mother. 

ANNE.     You  heard  me,  girl. 

DR.  HALL.  You  were  his  wife.  What  differ 
ences  you  had  you  should  have  hid  within  the 
family  walls  and  shown  an  outward  sign  of  amity 
and  love,  not  aired  your  grievance  to  a  tattling 
world  and  lain  your  children  open  to  much  shame. 

ANNE.  What  shame  there  was,  is  his.  You  all 
know  that. 

SUSANNA.  Our  family  scandal  is  an  old  wives' 
tale  retold  by  gossips  round  the  winter  fire. 

ANNE  [proudly]  Aye,  that  it  is. 

DR.  HALL  [frowning  on  Anne]  With  him  it  shall 
be  buried.  Mark  you  that! 

ANNE  [whimpering^  Blame  me ;  blame  me ! 
There  's  none  to  take  my  part ! 

SUSANNA.     Mother!     Peace,  I  pray! 

DR.  HALL  [turns  away,  and  going  to  fireplace, 
notices  the  chest]  What 's  in  the  chest? 

JUDITH.     I  do  not  know. 

SUSANNA.     We  did  not  look. 

DR.  HALL.  'T  were  well  we  do  so  now.  [Opens 
the  chest.]  There  's  much  within.  [He  takes  out 
the  costume  Shakespeare  wore  as  "  Adam  "  in  "  As 
You  Like  It.99] 

JUDITH.     A  shepherd's  smock. 

ANNE.     Fine  clothes  for  London,  huh! 
[55] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN   DO' 

DR.  HALL  [taking  out  the  costume  worn  as  the 
"  Ghost  "  in  "  Hamlet  "]  Here  's  more. 

JUDITH  [lifting  it  up]  'T  is  strange  —  covered 
with  gauze!  What  should  he  use  that  for? 

DR.  HALL.  I  've  heard  he  played  a  ghost  in 
one  of  his  plays.  [He  takes  a  woman's  dress  from 
the  chest.  ] 

SUSANNA.     A  woman's  dress  ! 

ANNE.  Aye,  one  of  some  trollop  that  he  dallied 
with !  And  yet  you  'd  make  me  hold  my  peace ! 

DR.  HALL.      There  are  no  woman  players. 

ANNE.     He  'd  go  afield  to  find  a  dame ! 

JUDITH.     We  had  best  put  them  back. 

ANNE.  You  cannot  leave  those  sinful  things 
about  the  house. 

JUDITH.  I  'd  like  to  keep  them ;  they  were 
father's. 

DR.  HALL.  They  were  a  part  of  his  shameful 
life.  We  had  best  burn  them. 

SUSANNA.  Yes.  But  put  the  dress  by.  It 
would  make  over  well  for  Betty.  Burn  the  rest. 

JUDITH.     What  else  is  there? 

DR.  HALL  [going  back  to  the  chest]  Look, 
parchments !  [He'  takes  out  a  bundle  of  parch 
ments  and  throws  them  on  the  floor.  The  others 
gather  around  as  Dr.  Hall  takes  manuscript  after 
manuscript  from  the  chest  and  tosses  them  on  the 
floor.] 

SUSANNA  [looking  at  one  of  the  manuscripts] 
Why,  it 's  a  play!  [Looking  at  another]  And  so 
is  this.  [Looking  at  several]  They  must  be 
father's  plays.  [Reading  from  a  manuscript] 
"  Twelfth  Night  or  What  You  Will."  [Turning 
[56] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

the  pages,  reads]  "  She  sat  like  patience  on  a 
monument,  .  .  ." 

ANNE.     'T  is  foolish  trash. 

SUSANNA  [turning  another  page,  reads]  "  Too 
old,  by  heaven,  let  still  the  woman  take  an  elder 
than  herself:  .  .  ." 

ANNE.  An  elder!  Did  he  write  that?  Even 
from  the  grave  he  taunts  me  with  my  age ! 

The  Nurse  reenters 

NURSE.     The  Vicar  is  without. 

DR.  HALL.      Show  him  in. 

NURSE.     Aye.  Exit  Nurse. 

SUSANNA  [pointing  to  the  clothes  and  the  manu 
scripts]  Put  them  back.  Don't  let  the  Vicar  see 
them. 

DR.  HALL.     There  is  no  time. 

[The  others  set  themselves  to  rights  to  receive 
the  Vicar  fittingly.  Anne  is  on  the  point  of  burst 
ing  out  in  a  tirade  against  her  late  husband,  but 
is  silenced  by  the  frowns  of  the  others.} 

The  Nurse  reenters,  followed  by  the  Rev.  John 
Ward,  Vicar  of  Trinity  Church,  Stratford. 

THE  VICAR  [nodding  to  each}  Susanna,  Judith, 
Mistress  Shakespeare.  [When  Anne  is  addressed 
as  "  Mistress  Shakespeare  "  her  face  beams.]  Ah, 
you  are  all  gathered  here  in  grief,  so  let  me  bring 
the  comfort  that  I  may.  The  Doctor  's  told  me  all, 
and  I  feel  deeply  with  you ;  and  though  my  calling 
bids  me  tell  the  truth,  my  heart  would  temper  it 
with  charity  and  let  the  scandal  of  your  father's 
life  be  buried  with  him  in  the  grave.  Although  an 
[57] 


'THE    GOOD   MEN   DO' 

actor,  without  the  law,  without  the  Church,  the 
burial  will  be  with  the  full  service  for  the  dead,  as 
with  peace-departed  souls.  His  last  few  years  in 
Stratford  have  done  much  to  quiet  talk  of  what 
had  gone  before  and  justify  me  in  the  course  that 
I  shall  take.  And  you  must  bend  your  thoughts 
to  build  a  pretty  legend  round  his  life,  of  honor, 
truth,  and  simple  loyalty. 

ANNE.  Ah-h-h.  [The  others  quiet  her  with 
their  looks.] 

THE  VICAR.  No  fitter  monument  can  you  erect 
to  him  you  all  held  dear  than  the  report  of  good 
repute  after  his  death.  [To  Dr.  Hall]  Take  me 
where  he  lies  and  I  will  read  a  prayer  to  rest  his 
soul.  Come,  join  me,  all. 

[Dr.  Hall  leads  The  Vicar  to  the  inner  room, 
Judith  and  the  Nurse  follow.  The  chimes  strike 
the  half -hour.  Susanna  and  Anne  start  to  go,  but 
seeing  the  pile  of  manuscripts,  go  over  to  it. 
Susanna  picks  up  first  one  and  then  another  of  the 
manuscripts,  looking  them  over  with  curiosity.] 

THE  VICAR  [within]  "  I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life  saith  the  Lord,  he  that  believeth  in  me, 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live ;  and  he  that 
believeth  in  me  shall  never  die." 

ANNE.     And  now  they  pray  for  him.     Bah ! 

THE  VICAR.  "  Despise  not  thou  the  chastening 
of  the  Lord,  nor  faint  when  thou  art  rebuked 
of  him:  for  whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth, 
and  scourgeth  every  son  whom  he  receiveth." 

ANNE  [kicking  at  the  manuscripts  with  her  toe] 
What  will  you  do  with  these  things? 

SUSANNA.     They  should  be  destroyed. 
[58 


"THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

THE  VICAR.  "  Be  not  deceived ;  God  is  not 
mocked." 

ANNE.     Aye,  that  they  should! 

THE  VICAR.  "  God  is  not  unrighteous  that  he 
will  forget  your  works  and  the  labor  that  pro- 
ceedeth  of  love ;  — 

JUDITH  [coming  to  the  door  from  the  inner 
room,  to  Susanna  and  Anne]  Come. 

ANNE.      Nay,  that  I  '11  not. 

JUDITH.     Please,  go  in. 

ANNE.     Well.     [She  goes  up  to  the  door.] 

THE  VICAR.  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  travail 
and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  refresh  you." 

ANNE  [in  the  door,  turning  to  Susanna  and 
Judith]  But  I  '11  not  pray  !  Exit  Anne. 

THE  VICAR.  "  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in 
death,  of  whom  may  we  seek  for  succor  but  of 
thee,  O  Lord,  who  for  our  sins  art  justly  dis 
pleased." 

[Judith  watches  Susanna  as  she  reads  the 
manuscripts.] 

THE  VICAR.  "  Ye  that  do  truly  and  earnestly 
repent  you  of  your  sins  and  are  in  love  and  charity 
Avith  your  neighbors,  and  intend  to  lead  a  new  life, 
following  the  commandments  of  God  — 

SUSANNA.     Judith,  listen ! 

THE  VICAR.  "  And  walk  henceforth  in  holy 
ways  — 

JUDITH.     Yes. 

THE  VICAR.     "  Draw  near  with   faith  — 

[Judith  closes  the  door,  shutting  out  the  voice 
of  the  Vicar,  and  comes  to  Susanna.] 

SUSANNA  [reads^  "  The  evil  that  men  do  lives 
[59] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 

after  them;   the  good   is   oft  interred  with  their 
bones." 

JUDITH.     Yes,  the  evil  does  live. 

SUSANNA.     But  we  can  help  to  bury  it. 

JUDITH.      Susanna ! 

SUSANNA.  Judith,  that  is  a  message  from 
father  to  us;  he  feared  the  evil  of  his  life  would 
live  after  him  and  wished  that  we  destroy  all 
knowledge  of  it. 

JUDITH.      I  wonder? 

SUSANNA.     That  is  as  the  Vicar  advised. 

JUDITH.  Yes,  it  is;  but—  [Dr.  Hall  opens 
the  door  to  the  inner  room.] 

DR.  HALL.     Come,  the  Vicar  '11  think  it  strange. 

SUSANNA.     We  '11  be  there  presently. 

Exit  Dr.  Hall. 

THE  VICAR.  "  Man  that  is  born  of  woman  hath 
but  a  short  time  to  live  and  is  full  of  misery,  he 
cometh  up  and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower,  he  fleeth 
as  it  were  a  shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  one 
stay." 

JUDITH.     What  shall  we  do? 

THE  VICAR.  "  If  any  man  sin  he  hath  an  advo 
cate  with  the  Father,  and  he  is  the  propitiation 
for  our  sins.  Lift  up  your  hearts." 

DR.  HALL,  ANNE,  AND  NURSE  [iwthin,  in  re 
sponse]  "  We  lift  them  up  unto  the  Lord." 

THE  VICAR.  "  Let  us  give  thanks  unto  the 
Lord." 

DR.  HALL,  ANNE,  AND  NURSE.  "  It  is  meet  and 
right  so  to  do." 

SUSANNA.     We  must  burn  them.     [She  takes  a 
handful  of  the  manuscripts  and  throws  them  on 
[60] 


THE    GOOD    MEN    DO' 


the  fire.  They  burn,  filling  the  room  with  a  warm 
light.] 

JUDITH.     No,  no. 

THE  VICAR.  "  It  is  very  meet,  right,  and  our 
bounden  duty  that  we  should  at  all  times,  and  in 
all  places,  give  thanks  unto  thee,  O  Lord." 

[Judith  takes  the  unfinished  manuscript  from 
the  table  and  holds  it  to  her,  as  if  to  keep  it  away 
from  Susanna.] 

THE  VICAR.  "  He  that  soweth  plenteously  shall 
reap  plenteously;  let  every  man  do  as  he  is  dis 
posed  in  his  heart." 

[Susanna  continues  to  throw  the  manuscripts 
on  the  fire  until  she  has  burned  them  all.] 

THE  VICAR.  "  Thou  knoweth,  Lord,  the  secrets 
of  our  hearts,  shut  not  thy  merciful  ear  to  our 
prayer." 

[Susanna  sees  that  Judith  has  the  unfinished 
manuscript;  she  takes  it  from  her.] 

THE  VICAR.  "  We  brought  nothing  into  the 
world,  and  it  is  certain  that  we  can  carry  nothing 
out.  The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away, 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord." 

[Susanna  throws  the  unfinished  manuscript  on 
the  fire.] 

THE  VICAR,  "  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes, 
dust  to  dust,  in  certain  hope  of  eternal  life." 

SUSANNA  [with  a  beatific  smile,  for  she  has  done 
her  duty]  The  evil  is  buried  with  him. 

JUDITH.  And  only  the  good  shall  live.  [Su 
sanna  and  Judith  go  into  the  inner  room  to  join 
in  prayer  at  their  father's  side.] 

THE  VICAR.     "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou  thy  serv- 

[61] 


'THE    GOOD    MEN   DO " 

ant  depart  in  peace,  according  to  thy  word,  for 
mine  eyes  have  seen  thy  salvation,  which  thou  hast 
prepared  before  the  face  of  all  people,  to  be  a  light 
to  lighten  the  Gentiles ;  and  to  be  the  glory  of  thy 
people  - 

SLOW    CURTAIN 


[62] 


TWO    CROOKS    AND    A   LADY] 

BY 

EUGENE    PILLOT 


1  Note:  The  author  acknowledges  his  indebtedness  to  a  short 
story,  "Fibre,"  by  Richard  Washburn  Child,  which  suggested 
the  play. 


CHARACTERS 

MILLAR The  Hawk 

LUCILLE His    accomplice 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE 

Miss  JONES Her  companion 

POLICE   INSPECTOR 

GARRI-PY A    policeman 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  November  16  and  17, 
1917. 

Copyright,  1917,  by  Eugene  Pillot. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any 
kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop. 


TWO   CROOKS    AND    A   LADY 

SCENE  :  Library  in  the  old  Fifth  Avenue  mansion 
of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  It  is  an  old-fashioned,  thor 
oughly  substantial  room  and  an  ideal  setting  for 
its  owner.  French  windows,  overlooking  Fifth 
Avenue  and  extending  to  the  floor,  are  in  the 
middle  of  the  rear  wall.  Bookcases  on  each  side 
of  them  extend  to  a  door  at  rear  right  and  to  a 
writing  desk  at  left  front.  There  is  a  chair  ne'ar 
the  window,  one  by  the  table,  and  one  by  the  desk. 
Prominent  among  the  usual  desk  fittings  must  be 
a  small  gold  stamp  box.  A  waste-paper  basket 
stands  beside  the  desk,  in  full  view  of  the  audience. 
Several  porcelain  vases  are  placed  about  the  room. 
A  long  library  table,  holding  two  brass  candle 
sticks,  is  at  right  front.  Just  above  it,  on  the 
right  wall,  a  large,  long  mirror  hangs  so  that  it 
reflects  the  opposite  side  of  the  room. 

PLACE:  New  York  City.  TIME:  The  present. 
About  three  o'clock  on  a  rainy  afternoon. 

•  The  curtain  rises  on  an  empty  stage,  rather 
dark  because  of  the  rainy  day  and  the  drawn  cur 
tains.  The  French  window  in  the  rear  optfns  cau 
tiously  and  Miller  stealthily  slips  into  the  room. 
He  is  a  tall,  handsome  man  —  the  usual  type  of 
gentleman  crook  who  has  emerged  from  the  bot 
tom  of  his  nefarious  profession.  He  wears  a  dark 
raincoat  and  a  soft  black  hat,  pulled  down  a  little 
[65] 


TWO    CROOKS 

over  his  eyes.  As  he  starts  to  advance  into  the 
room,  approaching  -footsteps  are  heard  of  right. 
Frightened,  he  slips  behind  the  heavy  curtains  at 
the  window. 

Lucille  enters  from  the  door  at  right.  She  is 
in  the  conventional  white  apron  and  cap  of  a  well- 
groomed  parlor  maid.  She  stops  for  a  moment 
'to  tidy  the  table,  glances  up  at  the  mirror,  and 
starts  to  make  a  slight  readjustment  of  her  cap. 
Suddenly  she  realizes  that  it  is  too  dark  for  her  to 
see,  goes  to  the  window,  and  quickly  pulls  back 
the  curtains,  flooding  the  room  with  light  and  re 
vealing  Miller.  The  moment  she  sees  Miller,  she 
jumps  back  frightened. 

LUCILLE  [in  a  loud  voice]  Miller! 
MILLER    [frightened,    he    comes    forward    cau 
tiously]  Don't  shout ! 

LUCILLE.     You  nearly   scared  the  life   out   of 


me 


MILLER.  Don't  tell  it  to  the  whole  house. 
[Glances  toward  door.]  Lucille,  anybody  about? 

[Throughout  the  following  scene,  Lucille  and 
Miller  give  their  lines  quickly,  feverishly,  for 
they  fear  that  they  may  be  interrupted  at  any 
moment.'] 

LUCILLE.  Not  yet ;  but  they  wheel  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane  in  here  every  afternoon.  You  're  not  safe 
here!  [Tries  to  hurry  him  to  the  window.] 

MILLER  [catching  her  by  the  arm]  Quick! 
Where  does  she  keep  the  Thirty-three? 

LUCILLE  [carelessly,  as  she  jerks  her  arm  away] 
Why  should  I  tell  you? 

[66] 


AND    A   LADY 

MILLER.  Going  to  hog  the  necklace  yourself 
'stead  of  divvying  up  with  me,  huh? 

LUCILLE.     No. 

MILLER.     Then  what  the  hell 's  the  matter  with ' 
you? 

LUCILLE^  You  'v'e  been  taking  that  Minnie 
out  again! 

MILLER.     Naw,  I  'm  on  the  level  with  you. 

LUCILLE  [scornfully]  Huh! 

MILLER.  Did  n't  I  say  we  'd  get  married 
soon 's  we  cop  the  necklace? 

LUCILLE  [arrogantly]  I  know  you  said  that. 

MILLER.  Then,  what's  in  your  craw?  Jeal 
ous  again? 

LUCILLE.  Why  not?  I've  got  everything 
staked  on  you! 

MILLER.  And  you  can  play  it  for  all  it  's 
worth.  It  '11  take  both  of  us  to  steal  the  Thirty- 
three. 

LUCILLE.     Miller,  it  's  a  wonderful  necklace. 

MILLER.     Worth  forty  thousand  dollars. 

LUCILLE.  Thirty-three  blue-white  diamonds. 
Would  n't  think  an  old  dame  would  be  so  stuck 
on  it! 

MILLER.  No  more  than  we  are.  [Nudges  her 
affectionately.]  Now,  where  does  she  keep  it? 

LUCILLE.     In  this  room! 

MILLER.     This  room? 

LUCILLE.  Yes,  they  say  she  comes  in  here  to 
look  at  it ;  but  no  one  's  ever  seen  her  do  it ! 

MILLER.  Good  enough ;  we  '11  cop  it  this  very 
afternoon ! 

LUCILLE.     How? 

[67] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MILLER.     Listen,  this  is  the  dope. 

LUCILLE  [eagerly]  Uh-huh. 

MILLER.  Servants  are  off  to-day,  'cept  you, 
the  cook,  and  the  old  dame's  companion.  Cook  's 
way  down  in  the  kitchen  —  and  I  've  fixed  it  to 
get  the  companion  away. 

LUCILLE.     How? 

MILLER.  Dennis  is  across  the  street  —  watch 
ing  this  window. 

LUCILLE.     Why? 

MILLER.  When  the  time  's  ready,  I  '11  signal 
him  with  this  handkerchief  and  right  off  the  phone 
here  will  ring.  You  answer  it. 

LUCILLE  [puzzled]  What's  the  game? 

MILLER.  Dennis  is  going  to  send  a  fake  mes 
sage  —  something  about  a  phony  check  —  that  '11 
get  Miss  Jones  out  of  the  house.  Want  you  to 
answer  the  phone  so  's  to  be  sure  it 's  Dennis. 
Then  call  her,  understand? 

LUCILLE.     Yes ! 

MILLER.     After  that  it  '11  be  plain  sailing. 

LUCILLE.  But  Dennis  '11  want  some  of  the  boot 
for  doing  that? 

MILLER.     Naw,    I    promised    him    a    tenner    if  ^ 
he  'd  send  the  phone  message  and  then  beat  it  to 
the  station   and  get   a  couple   of  tickets   for  us. 
[Murmur  of  voices  from  off  right.] 

LUCILLE.  Oh,  they  're  coming  now.  Better 
get  away  in  a  hurry  !  [Miller  runs  to  the  window.] 

MILLER.     Don't  forget  to  answer  that  phone! 

LUCILLE.  I  won't !  They  're  almost  here ! 
Hurry  up  and  get  out! 

MILLER.     No,  I  'm  going  to  stay  right  here. 
[68] 


AND    A   LADY 

LUCILLE.     But  they  '11  see  you ! 

MILLER,  No,  they  won't.  I  '11  slide  behind 
this  curtain.  \He  slips  behind  one  of  the  window 
curtains,  which  remain  partly  open.  He  is  com 
pletely  concealed.  Lucille  pretends  to  arrange 
articles  on  the  desk,  -furtively  glancing  at  right 
door.] 

From  right  enter  Miss  Jones,  pushing  an  in 
valid's  chair  in  which  is  seated  Mrs.  Simms-Vane. 

[Miss  Jones,  the  paid  companion  of  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane,  is  a  rather  dull,  systematic  English  woman, 
not  in  the  least  understanding  her  mistress,  but 
as  a  result  of  long  service,  obeying  her  to  the  let 
ter.  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  a  hopeless  paralytic  for 
twenty  years,  cannot  move  her  chin  a  quarter  of 
an  inch  to  left  or  right.  Her  body  is  rigid;  her 
cheeks  are  webbed  with  the  fine  wrinkles  of  the 
years;  her  eyes  are  beautiful  with  patience ;  and  her 
mouth  is  lovely  with  the  firmness  of  suffering. 
Once  very  beautiful,  she  is  now,  at  the  age  of 
sixty,  as  inert  as  a  faded  flower.  She  wears  a  rich 
but  simple  dress  of  black  silk  with  white  lace  at 
the  throat.  Miss  Jones  wheels  the  chair  to  left 
center,  somewhat  to  rear,  and  facing  the  table  and 
the  mirror  on  the  right  wall.  She  lifts  one  of  the 
invalid's  hands  and  places  it  so  that  it  rests  easily 
on  the  arm  of  her  chair.  As  she  goes  to  the  other 
side  of  the  chair  and  arranges  the  other  hand  in 
a  similar  manner,  Miller,  with  his  eye  on  Miss 
Jones  and  watched  by  Lucille,  silently  steps  from 
behind  the  curtain,  glances  out  the  window,  gives 
a  quick  wave  of  his  handkerchief  —  the  signal  to 
[69] 


TWO    CROOKS 

the  unseen  Dennis  —  and  slips  behind  the  curtain 
again  'without  being  seen  by  either  Miss  Jones  or 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [as  Miss  Jones  starts  to 
make  a  slight  adjustment  of  the  old  lady's  head 
against  the  back  of  her  chair]  No,  to  the  right. 
[Miss  Jones  moves  the  head  slightly.]  Too  much. 
More  to  the  left.  [Miss  Jones  moves  the  head 
again.  ] 

Miss  JONES.  May  I  ask  why  you  always  want 
your  head  faced  that  way? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [coolly  amused]  You  may 
ask. 

[Mrs.  Simms-Vane' s  tone  causes  Miss  Jones'  to 
step  back  abashed,  and  she  does  not  venture  the 
question.  The  telephone  on  the  desk  rings.  Miss 
Jones  starts  toward  it;  but  Lucille  has  already 
picked  it  up.] 

LUCILLE.  I  '11  answer  it,  Miss  Jones.  [Speaks 
into  the  telephone.]  Hello  -  -  Yes  -  -  Yes! 
[Glances  in  direction  of  Miller.]  —  All  right, 
I'll  call  her.  [Turns  to  Miss  J one's]  It's  for 
you,  Miss  Jones. 

Miss  JONES.  Thank  you.  [Goes  to  telephone] 
Hello  —  Yes  —  Oh,  is  that  so  ?  —  Very  well.  I  '11 
be  right  down  to  see  about  it.  —  Thank  you. 
Good-bye.  [Hangs  up  the  receiver  and  goes  to 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane.]  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  that  was 
the  Empire  National  Bank  on  the  phone. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     Yes? 

Miss  JONES.      The  cashier  has  discovered  what 
appears  to  be  an  alteration  in  a  check  you  gave 
Andrews,  the  grocer.     They  asked  me  to  go  im- 
[70] 


AND    A    LADY 

mediately  to  their  down-town  offices ;  and  I  told 
them  I  would. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     Very  well. 

Miss  JONES  [to  Lucille]  You  will  remain  here 
with  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  There  will  be  nothing  to 
do  for  her.  [Goes  to  the  door  at  right  where  she 
turns  and  says  to  Lucille^  Even  though  it  is  rain 
ing,  she  will  take  her  daily  ride  at  four  as  usual. 
By  that  time,  probably,  I  shall  return. 

LUCILLE  [with  a  superior  air]  Very  good,  Miss 
Jones. 

[Exit  Miss  Jones.  A  moment's  silence,  then  an 
outside  door  closes.  Miller  steps  out  from  behind 
the  curtain  and  beckons  for  Lucille  to  come  to  him. 
She  does  so  and  together  they  step  out  into  the 
room  and  look  threateningly  at  Mrs.  Simms-Vane 
for  a  moment.  They  are  now  in  her  range  of 
vision  and  she  stares  at  them  without  the  flicker  of 
an  eyelash.] 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [calmly]  Lucille,  who  is  this 
gentleman?  [Lucille  fidgets.]  Why  is  he  here? 
[Lucille  becomes  more  nervous.] 

MILLER  [brushing  past  Lucille]  I  '11  do  the 
talking ! 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  I  fear,  Lucille,  that  I  have 
been  mistaken  in  you. 

MILLER  [to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  Now,  there'll 
be  no  nonsense ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.      I  think  I  understand. 

MILLER.     Better  for  you,  if  you  do ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Sir,  will  you  kindly  step 
forward  three  or  four  steps? 

MILLER.     What  for? 

[71] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  am  unable,  because  of 
my  infirmity,  to  turn  my  head;  and  I  prefer  to 
talk  looking  into  the  eyes. 

MILLER  [stepping  m  front  of  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane]  We  '11  not  have  much  talk.  [Quickly,  to 
Lucille]  You  mind  that  door.  [Points  to  door, 
which  Lucille  closes  as  Miller  goes  to  the  telephone 
and  cuts  its  green  cord.  Resuming  his  position 
in  front  of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  Now,  Mrs.  Simms- 
Yane,  I  '11  tell  you  why  I  'm  here. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     Yes? 

MILLER.  I  come  for  the  Thirty-three,  and 
you  're  going  to  tell  me  where  it  is. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [slight  surprise]  So  you  call 
it  the  Thirty-three? 

MILLER.  Need  n't  pretend  you  don't  under 
stand  what  I  'm  talking  about.  I  ain't  got  much 
time.  Now,  where  is  it?  [Points  a  menacing 
finger  at  Mrs.  Simms-Vane' s  face.  She  merely 
smiles  and  looks  at  him  without  making  the  slight 
est  movement.] 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [firmly,  but  softly]  Sir,  you 
have  made  a  mistake  to  come  here. 

MILLER.     Mistake?     Ha!      [Halfway  laughs.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  It  is  true  that  I  am  a  help 
less  invalid  and  cannot  call  for  assistance ;  but 
there  is  that  which  will  cause  you  to  fail.  You 
shall  have  a  disaster. 

LUCILLE  [as  she  comes  to  Miller,  frightened] 
Ohv3Iiller,  what  does  she  mean? 

MILLER  [ignores  Lucille.     Speaks  sneeringly  to 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  You  mean  you'll  call  on  God? 
Well,  my  nerve  's  good  for  that  stuff. 
[72] 


AND    A   LADY 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [referring  to  Lucille]  Hers 
is  not.  [Miller  turns  and  looks  at  Lucille,  who 
has  become  very  nervous.] 

LUCILLE.     It's  a  lie!     The  old  fossil! 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [a  little,  slow  smile  passes 
over  her  face  as  she  continues  in  her  calm  voice] 
Nevertheless,  I  do  not  refer  to  divine  assistance. 

MILLER.     Then,  what  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  think  you  will  fail,  be 
cause  you  are  not  made  of  the  material  that  suc 
ceeds.  You  are  both  of  the  base  metals  —  unre 
strained,  passionate,  and  vulgar. 

LUCILLE  [her  vanity  is  hurt]  The  idea! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Yes,  and  that  is  why  you 
made  a  mistake  to  come  into  conflict  with  me. 

MILLER.     Bah ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  At  the  very  outset,  sir, 
you  made  a  mistake. 

MILLER.      Mistake  —  what  mistake? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Almost  your  first  words  dis 
closed  the  fact  that  you  did  not  know  where  the 
necklace  is  laid  away. 

MILLER.  You  're  not  very  clever  yourself. 
You  've  just  as  well  as  admitted  the  Thirty- 
three  's  in  this  room. 

[Jerks  off  his  raincoat,  throws  it  on  the  floor, 
and  starts  to  search  for  the  Thirty-three  among 
the  papers  in  the  writing-desk  drawers.  Lucille 
still  keeps  guard  at  the  door.  Mrs.  Simms-Vane, 
unable  to  turn  her  head,  stares  ahead  at  nothing.} 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE   [afte'r  a  pause,  in  her  same 
calm  voice]  Will  you  trust  in  one  who  has  never 
broken  her  word  to  anyone? 
[73] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MILLER  [stops  suddenly  and  looks  at  Mrs. 
Simms-Vane]  What  are  you  trying  to  get  at? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Suppose  I  promise  to  re 
ward  you  [Lucille  starts  forward  jealously]  both 
to  the  full?  [Lucille  sinks  back  relieved.} 

MILLER.     What  are  you  giving  us? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  The  necklace  is  my  most 
treasured  possession,  not  because  of  its  money 
value,  but  because  my  dear,  dead  husband  gave  it 
to  me  when  we  were  young  and  very  happy. 
[Lucille  turns  away,  sickened  by  this  expression 
of  sentiment.} 

MILLER.     What 's  that  got  to  do  with  us  ? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  That  is  why  I  will  not 
have  it  taken  from  me. 

LUCILLE.     Listen  to  her! 

MILLER   [coarse  laugh}  Ha! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Then  look  out  for  your 
selves.  I  warn  you. 

[Miller  walks  back  until  he  stands  in  front  of 
Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Suddenly  he  takes  a  pistol 
from  his  pocket  and  thrusts  the  muzzle  of  it  into 
her  face.] 

MILLER  [growling]  Where 's  the  thing  hid? 
[Mrs.  Simms-Vane  slowly  closes  her  eyes  and 
slowly  opens  them  agam.  He  pushes  the  revolver 
nearer  her.]  Where  's  it  hid? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Do  you  think  I  fear  that 
you  will  pull  that  trigger? 

MILLER.     Why  would  n't  I  ? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Can  you  not  see  how  beau 
tiful  that  would  be  for  me  —  a  hopeless  invalid? 

MILLER  [not  understanding]  Huh? 
[74] 


AND    A   LADY 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  But  it  is  too  much  to  hope. 
You  would  not  shoot  me. 

MILLER.     I  '11  soon  show  you ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Ah,  no,  that  would  make 
a  noise. 

MILLER  [impatiently]  What  if  it  did? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Then  you  could  not  con 
tinue  your  search.  No,  I  cannot  hope  that  you 
will  pull  that  trigger. 

MILLER  [realizing  the  truth  of  her  words, 
drops  the  pistol  to  his  side.']  You  're  a  tough  old 
nut. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Thank  you,  sir.  That  is 
very  kind. 

MILLER.  Bah!  [Then  to  Lucille']  Pull  out 
the  books,  girlie.  We  've  got  to  frisk  the  whole 
room. 

LUCILLE  [coming  forward]  All  right ! 

MILLER.  Go  through  it  systematic  and  fast; 
and  look  in  the  vases ! 

LUCILLE.  Yes,  yes !  [Begins  to  execute  his 
commands.] 

MILLER.  Remember,  she  said  it  was  "  laid 
away  "  —  that 's  the  cue. 

LUCILLE.     Uh-huh. 

[Miller  returns  to  the  desk,  tosses  papers  and 
boxes  to  the  floor,  opens  the  stamp  box  on  the 
desk,  finds  a  locked  drawer,  and  feverishly  splin 
ters  it  open.  Lucille  is  hastily  pulling  out  the 
books  from  the  shelves  and  searching  the  wall 
behind  them  for  any  secret  hiding  place  of  the 
necklace.  The  room  is  in  a  welter  of  disorder. 
Finally,  Miller  returns  to  his  revolver  which  he  left 
[75] 


TWO    CROOKS 

on  the  table  as  he  made  his  rounds  of  the  room, 
stares  down  at  it,  and  bites  his  lip.] 

MILLER  [growling]  Damn !  Time  wasted ! 
[Looks  at  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  and  takes  a  pair  of 
steel  pliers  from  his  side  pocket,  opens  them,  and 
looks  down  at  them.]  It 's  rough  work;  but  it  's 
got  to  be  done.  [Goes  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  and 
closes  his  hand  over  one  of  her  white  wrists.  Her 
fingers  move  a  little.]  Huh!  There's  some  feel 
ing  in  this  hand.  I  thought  so.  [He  slips  the 
toothed  jaws  of  Hie  pliers  between  the  thumb  and 
fore' finger  down  upon  the  soft  flesh  in  the  crotch 
of  her  thumb  and  closes  the  pliers  upon  it.]  Now, 
where  's  the  necklace?  [Mrs.  Simms-Vane  silently 
stares  at  him.]  Better  tell.  [She  merely  closes 
her  eyes.]  You  better  tell!  [Lucille  shudders  as 
she  sees  that  he  is  squeezing  the  pliers  in  his  tight 
ening  grip.]  Curse  you!  Out  with  it!  Where  's 
the  necklace? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  That  is  painful;  but  I  do 
not  think  pain  will  ever  be  my  master.  I  shall 
not  tell  you. 

LUCILLE.  Stop  !  Stop,  Miller !  The  blood  's 
coming ! 

MILLER.     Let  it  come. 

LUCILLE.  But  she  won't  tell !  Oh,  you  're 
crushing  the  flesh !  Stop !  [Starts  to  pull  him 
away.  ] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [opening  her  eyes]  Ah,  she  's 
weakened !  I  said  you  were  both  made  of  inferior 
stuff.  This  French  doll  of  yours,  sir,  was  willing 
to  see  you  torture  an  old  lady  who  cannot  move 
and  yet  a  few  drops  of  red  blood  make  her  cry 
[76] 


AND    A   LADY 

What  a  pair  you  are  —  all  boastfulness ; 
but  your  nerves  are  made  of  shoddy.  [Miller 
drops  the  pliers  m  Ms  pockety  looks  at  Lucille, 
and  sneers.] 

LUCILLE  [to  Miller]  Don't !  Don't  look  at  me 
like  that! 

MILLER.  Why  not?  The  old  dame  's  right 
about  us.  [Outside,  a  clock  strikes  three  o'clock.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [fretfully]  It 's  three.  I 
ordered  my  hot  milk  for  three. 

MILLER  [wheeling  toward  Lucille]  The  cook  '11 
bring  it  in? 

LUCILLE  [sullenly]  Perhaps. 

MILLER.  Quick,  then!  Go  to  the  kitchen. 
Say  she  sent  you  for  it.  I  '11  take  another  look 
round  the  room.  [Lucille  shrugs  her  shoulders 
and  exits.  Miller  starts  to  search  in  the  desk 
drawers  again.] 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [sees  him  in  the  mirror] 
Young  man,  I  see  you  're  searching  in  those 
drawers  again.  I  would  not  waste  my  time  doing 
that. 

MILLER  [startled]  Why  not? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Perhaps  I  will  tell  you 
what  you  wish  to  know. 

MILLER.     What  ? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Come  and  stand  in  front 
of  me. 

MILLER  [he  does  so,  staring  at  her.]     Well? 

MRS.    SIMMS-VANE.     You    may    be    surprised, 
sir,  to  hear  that  I  cannot  help  admiring  the  bold 
ness  you  have  shown  in  coming  here. 
I  MILLER.     Aw,  what  are  you  giving  me  now? 
[77] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  have  always  been  at 
tracted  by  ability,  wherever  it  showed  itself  and  — 

MILLER  [with  contempt]  Words,  words. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  No-o,  but  you  are  a  hand 
some  young  man,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  your  mag 
netism  and  power  should  be  thrown  away  on  such 
a  worthless  young  woman  as  Lucille. 

MILLER.     Aw,  Lucille  's  all  right. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     Pah !    You  saw  her  cringe ! 

MILLER.     Well? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  A  pretty  face  —  that  's  all 
she  is.  And  you  are  infatuated  with  her  —  you 
who  could  win  women  far  above  her  class.  She 
stands  in  your  way.  This  very  occasion  is  an 
example  of  it. 

MILLER.     What  are  you  driving  at? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  In  the  next  fifteen  minutes 
she  may  cost  you  forty  thousand  dollars. 

MILLER  [leaning  nearer]  How  's  it  figured? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  I  don't  trust  her;  but  I 
could  —  trade  with  you. 

MILLER.     Trade? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Did  it  not  occur  to  you, 
sir,  that  forty  thousand  dollars  is  very  little  to 
me?  If  I  spent  it,  it  would  be  charged  to  my 
heirs. 

MILLER.  What  's  that  got  to  do  with  the 
Thirty-three? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  I  would  willingly  send  you 
a  check  for  the  amount,  if  you  would  go  away. 

MILLER  [scornfully]  Huh! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     But  it  is  too  much  to  ask 
[78] 


AND    A    LADY 

you  to  take  my  word  for  that.  However,  I  could 
take  yours. 

MILLER  [eagerly]  Yes? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  But  not  if  Lucille  were 
involved. 

MILLER.     Why  not? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  love  those  stones  the 
most  of  all  material  things  —  and  I  would  not 
trust  them  to  her. 

MILLER  [glances  toward  door,  then  leans  nearer 
to  her,  alert]  How's  that  again?  Talk  faster. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  I  cannot.  I  meant  that  if 
I  could  trust  you  —  you  alone  —  with  the  neck 
lace  until  I  could  arrange  to  buy  it  back  from 
you,  I  would  pay  you  more  for  it  than  its  ap 
praised  value. 

MILLER.     How  much  more? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     Twenty-five  per  cent  more. 

MILLER.      I'll  do  it!     Where's  the  necklace? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     But  I  fear  the  girl. 

MILLER  [discounting  her]  Oh,  that  girl? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Yes,  you  love  her;  and  a 
man  in  love  is  not  to  be  trusted. 

MILLER.      Aw,  she  's  not  the  only  girl  I  got. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  O-oh  —  and  still  I  've  no 
doubt  you  have  even  agreed  to  share  your  gains 
with  her. 

MILLER.     Well? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  It  is  that  which  has  in 
vited  my  contempt. 

MILLER.  I  never  promised  her  a  split.  Be 
sides,  I  know  you  're  right  about  Lucille. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Then,  twenty  thousand 
[79] 


TWO    CROOKS 

dollars  is  a  high  price  to  pay  for  this  cheap  little 
creature's  favor. 

MILLER.  Don't  have  to  pay  it  —  unless  she 
knows  I  've  got  the  sparklers. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     Would  you  then? 

MILLER.  Yes,  she  's  a  little  wildcat,  and  she  'd 
squeal  on  me. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Then  you  mean  that  you 
would  not  reveal  to  her  that  you  have  the  neck 
lace  ? 

MILLER.     Sure. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  You  mean  that  you  would 
give  me  the  chance  to  purchase  back  the  diamonds 
from  you? 

MILLER.     Yes. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  You  mean  that  you  would 
promise  to  take  nothing  else  from  this  house? 

MILLER.     What  else  is  there? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  There  is  a  stamp  box  on 
the  writing  desk.  You  opened  it.  I  heard  its 
click. 

MILLER.     What  of  it? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     It  is  made  of  solid  gold. 

MILLER  [surprised  that  he  should  have  missed 
such  a  valuable  article,  picks  it  up  and  stares  at 
it]  Gold?  That  made  of  gold? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     Yes. 

[Thinking  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  cannot  see  him, 
he  starts  to  pocket  the  stamp  box.  She  sees  his 
movement  reflected  in  the  mirror  and  gives  a  low 
chuckle  of  satisfaction.  He  is  startled,  not  quite 
sure  whether  she  sqw  his  action  or  not.  Quickly, 
[80] 


AND    A    LADY 

but  reluctantly,   he  puts   the  stamp  box  on  the 
desk.] 

MILLER  [in  an  over- generous  tone]  Well,  what 
of  it  ?  I  'd  play  straight ;  but  how  do  I  know 
that  you  — 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  You  would  have  the  word 
of  Justinia  Simms-Vane.  Her  honor  has  never 
been  questioned.l  It  would  last  as  long  as  your 
own.  P^A/6 

MILLER  [stares  at  her  a  moment]  I  'm  no  fool. 
Lucille  's  not  worth  the  fuss.  Where  's  the  neck 
lace  ? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Come  near  me.  [He  does 
so.]  Open  the  buttons  of  my  dress. 

MILLER  [accusingly]  But  you  said  it  was 
"  laid  away." 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  chose  my  words  care 
fully.  Open  my  dress. 

MILLER  [opens  her  dress  and  se'es  the  necklace 
round  her  throat]  Judas  Garry owen!  She  wears 
them  !  What  stones  !  What  stones  ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Take  it  quickly.  [He  does 
so  and  at  once  begins  to  pick  the  stones  from  their 
settings.]  What  are  you  doing? 

MILLER.     Aw—       [He  is  too  busy  to  explain.] 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     I  say,  what  are  you  doing? 

MILLER.  Picking  the  stones  from  their  set 
tings. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     But  I  don't  understand  — 

MILLER  [picks  out  remaining  stones]  Just 
a  way  we  have.  [Drops  chain  into  zvastebasket.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     What  was  that  noise? 
[81] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MILLER.  Chain  going  into  the  basket.  I  take 
no  chances. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  But  you  will  do  me  the 
favor  to  button  my  dress.  Lucille  — 

MILLER.  Yes,  yes ;  but  look  at  them !  [Gloats 
over  diamonds.  ]  Thirty-three  perfect  ones  !  A-ah, 
what  a  handful!  Look!  [Holds  them  before 
her.]  I 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  They  are  pretty;  but  my 
dress  — 

MILLER.  All  right.  [Drops  stones  in  his  right 
pocket,  fastens  her  dress,  and  starts  to  adjust 
her  lace  collar.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     I  hear  Lucille  bringing  — 

MILLER.  How  you  going  to  put  her  off  the 
scent? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Leave  that  to  me.  If  you 
are  the  gentleman  I  think  you  are,  you  will  have 
her  give  me  the  milk. 

MILLER.      Well;  but  how  will  you  fix  her? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     Just  continue  your  search. 

MILLER.     But  I  've  finished  this  room ! 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Then  try  the  next ;  but 
leave  the  girl  to  me. 

MILLER  [takes  out  the  diamonds,  looks  at  them 
a  moment']  All  right.  [Walks  away.]  But 
don't  you  play  any  tricks  on  me. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Sir,  that  will  depend  upon 
you. 

[He    misses    her    inference    and    starts    going 

through    the    drawers    again.       Suddenly,    Mrs. 

Simms-Vane   hears    him    stop.      Reflected   in    the 

mirror  on  the  wall  before  her  she  sees  him  reach 

[82] 


AND    A    LADY 

for  the  gold  stamp  box  on  the  desk,  slowly  grasp 
it,  and  put  it  in  Ms  pocket.  She  sighs  and  closes 
her  eyes.  Lucille  appears  in  the  doorway,  carry 
ing  a  tray  which  holds  a  tall  glass  of  hot  milk.] 

MILLER  [seeing  Lucille]  You  got  the  milk,  huh ? 

LUCILLE.  Yes,  but  the  cook  wanted  to  bring 
it  in  herself. 

MILLER.  Well,  I 've  frisked  the  room  all  over 
again. 

LUCILLE.     What  'd  you  find? 

MILLER.      No  luck.     The  old  lady  's  done  us. 

LUCILLE.  Look  some  more.  We  got  lots 
more  time. 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     I  want  my  hot  milk. 

LUCILLE.     Forget  it !    [Sets  tray  on  the  table.] 

MILLER  [over-generous]  No,  give  her  the  milk. 

LUCILLE  [surprised]  What  's  come  over  you? 

MILLER.  Come  here.  [Lucille  does  so.  Half 
whisper]  Listen,  give  her  the  milk  and  keep  her 
busy.  Do  anything. 

LUCILLE.     What  for? 

MILLER.  I  want  to  see  if  there 's  anything 
worth  picking  up  in  the  other  rooms. 

LUCILLE.      But  — ? 

MILLER.     Go  on ;  give  her  the  milk. 

[Astounded,  Lucille  stares  at  him;  but  she 
takes  the  milk  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane.  Miller  wan 
ders  through  the  door  into  the  adjoining  room. 
Again  and  again  his  shadow  appears  near  the 
doorway,  as  though  he  were  watching  the  women.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  You  forget,  my  dear,  that 
I  cannot  move.  Put  the  glass  to  my  lips?  [Lu 
cille  does  so.]  A  little  nearer.  [Lucille  puts  the 
[83] 


TWO    CROOKS 

glass  nearer  Mrs.  Simms-Vane's  lips.]  The  other 
side.  [Peeved,  Lucille  glances  at  her;  but  moves 
the  glass  to  the  other  side  of  Mrs.  Simms-Vane's 
mouth.]  What's  that?  Dirt?  Is  that  dirt  in 
my  milk?  [Impatiently,  Lucille  looks  at  the  milk. 
Whispering]  Do  not  show  any  surprise,  Lucille. 
Keep  looking^at  the  milk. 

LUCILLE  [whispering]  Yes. 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [whispering]  He  has  the 
necklace ! 

LUCILLE  [whispering]  Oh ! 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [whispering]  If  you  show 
him  that  you  know,  he  will  kill  you.  Don't  move ! 
[Loudly]  Is  it  dirt  in  my  milk?  Look  again. 

LUCILLE.  I'm  trying  to  see.  [Whispering] 
You  're  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  me ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [whispering]  No,  but  he  has 
tricked  you  and  means  to  leave  you  to  your  fate. 
He  has  the  diamonds ! 

LUCILLE  [whispering]  Oh ! 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [whispering]  The  necklace 
without  the  stones  is  in  the  wastebasket.  The 
revolver  —  is  on  the  table. 

LUCILLE  [in  hushed  voice,  as  Miller  enters']  Oh. 

MILLER  [seeing  Lucille's  suspicious  attitude, 
turns  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  What  are  you  trying 
to  do  —  cut  Lucille  off  from  me?  [Lucille  looks 
away.  ] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE  [significantly]  Did  you  find 
it  —  what  you  came  for? 

MILLER  [hesitates,  then  sullenly]  No.  [Starts 
to  look  in  the  bookcases.  Lucille  sets  glass  on  the 
[84] 


AND    A   LADY 

table,  runs  to  the  wastebasket,  looks  in,  and  utters 
a  cry  of  rage.    Miller  turns  swiftly. ] 

LUCILLE.  You've  got  it,  you  dog!  [Both 
rush  for  the  revolver.  She  gets  it.]  Stand  back 
now ! 

MILLER.     But  Lucille  — 

LUCILLE.  You  double-crossed  me  —  after  I 
loved  you  so ! 

MILLER.  Listen,  girlie,  the  old  lady  's  framed 
us.  I  love  you,  girlie.  You  know  me.  You  get 
your  share!  This  was  the  only  way  I  could  get 
the  necklace !  It  was  all  for  you  ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Oh,  Lucille,  you  little  fool ! 
The  other  woman  is  the  one ! 

LUCILLE.  I  thought  so !  I  'm  going  to  kill 
you! 

MILLER  [desperately]  I  love  you ! 

LUCILLE.  Oh!  [Pained,  she  closes  her  eyes. 
Miller  seizes  a  brass  candlestick  from  the  table 
and  hurls  it  blindly  at  her,  striking  the  wall  be 
hind  her.]  You  dog!  [She  shoots.  He  falls  to 
the  floor.]  Oh,  what  have  I  done?  What  have  I 
done?  [Covers  her  face.  Outside  a  policeman's 
whistle  is  blown  twice.  Lucille  is  still  too  horrified 
by  her  crime  to  hear  it;  but  Mrs.  Simms-Vane 
smiles  knowingly  and  closes  her  eyes.] 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  said  it  would  be  disaster 
for  him  to  cross  me.  He  broke  his  agreement 
with  me.  He  did  not  know  that  I  could  see  him 
in  the  mirror  over  the  table  when  he  took  the  little 
stamp  box.  [Outside  the  police  whistle  again.] 

LUCILLE  [hears  whistle]  O-oh,  the  police! 
[85] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  And  now,  you  are  a  mur 
deress. 

LUCILLE  [running  to  her]  No!  No!  Please 
save  me! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  I  wonder  if  you  are  really 
bad.  I  doubt  it.  You  are  too  young  to  be  put  in 
jail. 

LUCILLE.     You  will  save  me? 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  I  shall  tell  a  little  white  lie 
for  you,  if  you  deserve  it. 

LUCILLE  [piteous  fright]  Oh,  if  you  omy 
would!  [Off  right  the  doorbell  rings.  Lucille 
becomes  more  frightened  and  glances  apprehen 
sively  toward  the  door.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  I  shall  say  you  shot  him  in 
defending  me.  But  we  must  hurry !  That  may  be 
the  police  ringing  now. 

LUCILLE.     Oh ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Put  the  revolver  in  my  lap. 
[Lucille  does  so.] 

LUCILLE.     Oh,  I  don't  deserve  to  be  saved! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Never  mind.  Go  put  your 
hand  in  the  young  man's  coat  pocket. 

LUCILLE.      Oh,  no  !     I  'm  afraid  to  touch  him  ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     Do  as  I  say. 

[Reluctantly,  Lucille  goes  to  Miller.  She  starts 
to  reach  for  his  pocket,  shudders,  and  recoils  from 
him.] 

MRS.   SIMMS-VANE.     The  right  side.      [Lucille 
is  startled  that  Mrs.  Simms-Vane  should  know  the 
correct  pocket;  but  she  quickly  thrusts  her  hand 
into  it.]     Do  you  feel  the  diamonds? 
[86] 


AND    A    LADY 

LUCILLE  [gloating]  Yes;  here  they  are.  [As 
she  lifts  the  stone's  from  Miller's  pocket,  she 
pauses,  swiftly  putting  back  a  stray  wisp  of  hair 
over  her  right  ear.] 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  Are  you  sure  you  have  all 
of  them? 

LUCILLE.     Yes ! 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.  You  did  not  leave  a  single 
one? 

LUCILLE  [overconfident ]  No,  I  'm  sure ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Then  count  each  one  and 
drop  it  into  my  hand. 

[Lucille  is  startled,  and  fears  that  she  has  been 
trapped,  but  quickly  recovers  her  composure.] 

LUCILLE  [counting  the  diamonds  into  Mrs. 
Simms-Vane's  hand  —  the  one  that  was  not  tor 
tured  by  Miller]  One,  two,  three  —  how  wonder 
ful  they  are!  [Insistent  ringing  of  the  doorbell 
causes  her  to  hasten  her  counting.]  Four,  five, 
six —  [She  quickly  continues  to  count  toward 
thirty.] 

[The  doorbell  has  ceased  ringing.  An  outside 
door  opens  and  closes.  A  growing  murmur  of 
voices.  A  man  exclaims,  "  But  we  heard  a  shot 
fired!  "  A  woman  replies,  "  But  it  could  n't  have 
been  here!  "  The  man,  "  We  'II  have  a  look  any 
way."] 

LUCILLE  [still  counting]  Thirty,  thirty-one, 
thirty-two  [a  pause  of  surprise1] ,  thirty-three ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [suspiciously]  Thirty -three? 

LUCILLE  [bewildered,  but  relieved]  Yes,  thirty- 
three. 

[87] 


TWO    CROOKS 

MRS.  SIMMS- VANE.     Then  I  have  the  stones  my 
husband  gave  me,  —  all  back  again? 
LUCILLE.     All. 

From,  right  enter  Miss  Jones,  in  hat  and  rain 
coat,  followed  by  Police  Inspector. 

Miss  JONES  [to  Inspector]  I  '11  prove  to  you 
there  was  nothing—  [Seeing  Mrs.  Simms-Vane, 
rushes  to  her.]  Oh,  Mrs.  Simms-Vane,  are  you 
all  right? 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.     Yes. 

Miss  JONES.      Nothing  has  happened? 

MRS.   SIMMS-VANE.      No everything. 

Policeman  Garrity  appears  in  the  doorway. 

GARRITY  [to  Miss  Jones,  as  he  appears]  Old 
lady  safe? 

[Miller  stirs  feebly.     Miss  Jones  sees  him.] 

Miss  JONES.  Yes,  but,  Inspector  [points  to 
Miller],  look! 

MILLER   [feebly]   Hello,  Inspector. 

INSPECTOR  [to  Garrity]  Miller,  the  Hawk! 
[To  Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  Excuse  me,  ma'am,  but 
who  shot  this  man? 

MRS.   SIMMS-VANE.     The  maid. 

LUCILLE.     I  was  defending  her ! 

MILLER.  That  's  a  lie !  The  little  cat  was  the 
"  inside  "  on  this  job.  We  messed  it  up,  and  she 
shot  me.  She  thought  I  double-crossed  her. 

LUCILLE.  Oh,  how  he  talks !  I  never  saw  that 
man  before  in  all  my  life!  Did  I,  Mrs.  Simms- 
Vane? 

[88] 


AND    A    LADY 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  My  dear  young  woman, 
I  tried  to  give  you  a  chance.  Now  I  advise  the 
officers  to  arrest  you.  You  were  his  accomplice. 

LUCILLE.     But  you  said  —  you  promised  — 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Certainly.  But  in  my 
necklace  there  were  not  the  number  of  stones  you 
counted  out  to  me.  You  kept  one. 

LUCILLE.     No !     No ! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Yes,  you  did.  The  neck 
lace  was  given  to  me  by  my  husband  on  my  thirty- 
fourth,  not  my  thirty-third,  birthday.  You 
thought  I  did  not  know  the  number  of  my  own 
stones;  so  you  kept  one. 

MILLER.  Ha !  That  serves  the  little  devil 
proper.  But  it's  just  like  her!  I  know  her 
tricks !  Look  under  the  hair  over  her  ears ! 

[Inspector  and  Garrity  start  to  examine  her; 
but  she  breaks  away  from  them.] 

LUCILLE.  Keep  away  from  me !  I  '11  give  her 
the  stone!  [She  reaches  under  the  hair  over  her 
right  ear  and  throws  the  diamond  into  Mrs. 
Simms-Vane's  lap.]  You  old  hag! 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE.  Miss  Jones  [Miss  Jones 
comes  forward],  have  the  officers  take  these  per 
sons  away. 

[Miss  Jones  nods  to  the  officers  to  remove 
Lucille  and  Miller.  Garrity  takes  Lucille  into  his 
custody  and  they  exeunt  right.  The  Inspector 
helps  Miller  up  and  starts  toward  the  door  with 
him,  where  Miller  turns  round.] 

MILLER  [savagely  to  Mrs.  Simms-Vane]  You  '11 
not  beat  us  again  !  [The  Inspector  pulls  him  out.] 

MRS.  SIMMS-VANE  [serenely  ignoring  his  re- 
[89] 


TWO    CROOKS 

mark]  Miss  Jones  [Miss  Jones  goes  nearer  to  her, 
waiting],  you  may  order  my  carriage  as  usual. 

[Miss    Jones    is    surprised,    but    quickly    nods 
assent  and  starts1  toward  the  door.] 

CURTAIN 


[90] 


FREE    SPEECH 
A    FARCE 

BY 

WILLIAM    L.    PROSSER 


CHARACTERS 

THE  CORPORAL, 

THE  PRISONER 

IVAN 

NIKOLAI 

FEODOR 

BORIS 

SERGIUS 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  March  8  and  9,  1918. 
Copyright,  1917,  by  William  L.  Prosser. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any 
kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop. 


FREE    SPEECH 

SCENE:  The  courtyard  of  a  prison  somewhere 
in  Russia.  At  the  rear,  a  wall.  In  the  center  of 
the  wall,  two  heavy  iron  doors,  which  open  out 
ward.  On  the  left,  the  prison  itself.  Down  left, 
the  entrance  to  a  passage  leading  into  the  prison. 

There  enter,  from  the  prison,  a  firing  squad  of 
five  men,  commanded  by  a  Corporal.  In  their 
midst,  a  Prisoner.  The  men  in  the  squad  are  Ivan, 
Nikolai,  Feodor,  Boris,  and  Sergius. 

THE  CORPORAL.  Halt !  Left  face !  Stand  at 
ease!  Prisoner,  step  forward. 

THE  PRISONER.     What  is  it  now? 

CORPORAL.  Listen  once  again  to  the  sentence 
which  has  been  passed  upon  you. 

PRISONER.     I  have  heard  it  nine  times  already. 

CORPORAL.  That  does  n't  make  any  difference. 
This  is  the  sentence  of  the  court.  [He  reads\ 
"  The  prisoner,  Frederick  Kraus  —  " 

PRISONER.      My  name  is  Spiegel. 

CORPORAL.     What 's  that? 

PRISONER.  My  name  is  Spiegel  —  Heinrich 
Spiegel. 

CORPORAL.  You  told  the  court  it  was  Kraus. 
It  does  n't  make  any  difference.  \Reads~\  "  The 
prisoner,  Frederick  Kraus,  citizen  of  Germany, 
[93] 


FREE    SPEECH 

having  resided  in  Petrograd  under  the  name  of 
Dmitri  Demochkin  - 

PRISONER.  It  was  n't  in  Petrograd.  It  was  in 
Pskov. 

CORPORAL.  It  does  n't  make  any  difference. 
Don't  interrupt!  [Reads]  "  —  under  the  name 
of  Dmitri  Demochkin,  has  been  twice  tried  on  the 
charge  of  setting  off  explosions  in  two  powder 
factories,  and  causing  the  death  of  three  thou 
sand  people.  He  has  been  found  guilty  by  unani 
mous  vote  of  a  jury  of  twenty-nine  loyal  Maxi 
malists  —  " 

PRISONER.     They  were  all  drunk. 

CORPORAL.  "  —  and  is  therefore  sentenced  to 
be  shot  at  by  a  firing  squad  until  he  is  dead."  We 
will  now  proceed  with  the  execution.  Comrades, 
attention !  The  Prisoner  is  directed  to  stand  over 
against  the  wall. 

[The  Prisoner  looks  the  Corporal  up  and  down, 
stares  coolly  at  the  squad,  shrugs  his  shoulders, 
and  saunters  nonchalantly  over  to  the  i^all.  There 
he  turns.] 

PRISONER.      I  wish  to  speak. 

CORPORAL.      What's  that? 

PRISONER.     I  have  something  to  say. 

CORPORAL.     You  can't  do  it. 

PRISONER.  I  have  the  right  of  free  speech!  I 
demand  my  right  to  be  heard ! 

CORPORAL.  You  have  spoken  already.  Two 
full  hours  at  the  trial.  That  was  why  they  found 
you  guilty.  It  is  too  late  now. 

NIKOLAI  [stepping  out  from  the  ranks]  What! 
Too  late? 

[94] 


FREE    SPEECH 

PRISONER  [appealing  to  the  squad]  Comrades, 
I  demand  my  rights  ! 

NIKOLAI.  Every  man  has  the  right  to  speak  at 
all  times,  so  long  as  no  other  man  is  speaking. 
Let  us  thank  God,  Comrade  Corporal,  that  there 
is  no  longer  any  czarist  regime  over  us  to  keep  our 
mouths  closed!  [To  the  Prisoner]  Speak,  com 
rade  !  It  is  your  right ! 

CORPORAL.  Look  here,  this  is  going  to  delay 
the  execution ! 

SERGIUS  [stepping  from  the  ranks]  It  makes  no 
difference  !  It  is  his  right !  Speak,  comrade  ! 

PRISONER.  Comrades,  do  you  know  who  I  am? 
I  stand  before  you  as  the  representative  of  Ger 
many  in  an  effort  to  bring  about  peace  among 
nations.  And  do  you  know  who  it  is  that  have 
condemned  me?  A  court  composed  entirely  of 
lower  middle-class  capitalists,  inspired  by  the  im 
perialists  of  the  Allied  countries.  [General  as 
tonishment,  mingled  with  doubt.]  The  prosecutor, 
as  I  can  prove  absolutely,  was  a  masquerading 
Kornilovist  in  disguise  !  [Excitement.]  The  judge 
had  held  court  under  the  former  Czar  —  [con 
sternation]  and  ten  men  on  the  jury  even  wore 
collars!  [Horror  and  disgust.]  Comrades! 
Are  seven  free  men  to  subject  themselves  to  idle 
aristocrats  who  are  pampered  by  luxury?  Com 
rades,  I  ask  you  to  refuse  to  i/ecognize  a  decision 
of  this  counter-revolutionary  and  anti-democratic 
court  as  binding  upon  you.  Is  not  democracy  it 
self  speaking  to  you,  comrades?  Does  it  not  cry 
out  against  the  murder  of  one  who  has  given  his 
whole  life  to  promote  international  peace?  Com- 
[95] 


FREE    SPEECH 

rades,  I  demand  that  you  give  me  a  vote  of  your 
approval,  and  express  a  want  of  confidence  in  my 
sentence ! 

BORIS  [stepping  from  the  ranks]  Bravo!  Let 
me  also  speak ! 

CORPORAL.      Comrade  Boris,  you  cannot  — 

BORIS.     I  have  the  right  to  speak  as  well  as  he ! 

CORPORAL.     That  does  n't  make  - 

PRISONER.     I  yield  the  floor  to  you,  comrade 

CORPORAL.      That  does  n't  make  any  - 

IVAN  [stepping  forward]  He  has  the  right  to 
do  it,  Comrade  Corporal.  That  is  parliamentary 
law. 

FEODOR.      Speak,  comrade! 

CORPORAL.     Look  here,  this  — 

THE  SQUAD  [threateningly]  Speak,  comrade! 
[The  Corporal  subsides.] 

BORIS.  Comrades !  Can  anything  be  more 
atrocious  than  for  us  to  permit  the  execution  of 
this  man,  who  speaks  to  us  as  an  apostle  and 
champion  of  the  peace  and  liberty  of  the  world? 
Does  not  the  injustice  of  his  condemnation  cry 
aloud  to  the  heavens  against  the  infamy  of  the 
bourgeoisie  — 

CORPORAL.     The  what? 

BORIS.  The  bourgeoisie!  The  thieving  middle 
classes,  who  wear  collars  and  shave  their  faces. 
Comrades,  let  us  abolish  the  middle  class ! 

FEODOR.  I  propose  a  want  of  confidence  in  the 
court  which  condemned  the  Prisoner! 

CORPORAL.     Look  here !     You   can't  do   that ! 
That  court  has  been  selected  by  — 
[96] 


FREE    SPEECH 

NIKOLAI.     That  does  n't  make  any  difference. 

FEODOR.  The  Corporal  is  the  representative 
of  the  court.  I  propose  a  want  of  confidence  in 
the  Corporal. 

IVAN.     He  is  right ! 

BORIS.     Yes,  yes,  he  is  right ! 

CORPORAL.  Comrades,  I  demand  the  right  to 
be  heard ! 

BORIS.     No,  no  !     Want  of  confidence ! 

CORPORAL.     It  is  my  right! 

IVAN.  He  has  the  right  to  speak.  Be  reason 
able,  comrades ! 

SERGIUS.      Speak,  then ! 

FEODOR.     Yes,  speak! 

[The  Corporal  walks  up  and  down  the  line, 
appealing  to  each  individual  in  turn.] 

CORPORAL.  Comrades,  you  are  becoming  very 
foolish.  I  solemnly  protest  against  this  condem 
nation  of  the  middle  classes.  I  am  a  middle-class 
man  myself,  and  I  am  just  as  good  a  revolutionist 
as  any  of  you.  And  the  court  which  condemned 
the  Prisoner  to  be  shot  was  just  as  revolutionary 
as  I  am.  I  ask,  comrades,  that  you  pass  a  reso 
lution  confirming  the  lawfulness  of  the  Prisoner's 
death.  I  hope  that  you  understand  that  the  Pris 
oner  is  a  criminal,  and  that  it  is  better  to  deprive 
one  dangerous  man  of  his  life  than  to  sacrifice 
thousands  of  useful  lives  in  — 

PRISONER.  I  move  to  discontinue  your  speech, 
Comrade  Corporal. 

[Silence.     General  amazement.] 

CORPORAL.     And  by  what  right,   comrade  ex- 
[97] 


FREE    SPEECH 

ploder   of  powder   magazines,  do   you  constitute 
yourself  the  chairman  of  this  assembly? 

PRISONER.     There  is  no  other  chairman. 

SERGIUS.     Let  us  elect  one,  then! 

CORPORAL..  We  can  elect  one  after  we  have 
shot  the  Prisoner. 

FEODOR.  We  must  elect  one  so  that  we  can 
vote  whether  we  are  to  shoot  the  Prisoner  or  not. 

NIKOLAI.     How  shall  we  elect  him? 

BORIS.  Does  anybody  know  how  to  be  a  chair 
man? 

IVAN.     I  do.     I  know  parliamentary  law. 

NIKOLAI.  Then  let  us  make  Comrade  Ivan  the 
chairman ! 

FEODOR.  I  propose  Comrade  Ivan  for  chair 
man. 

BORIS.     Yes,  let  Ivan  be  chairman. 

SERGIUS.     Let  us  vote! 

CORPORAL  [turning  away  in  disgust]  There  is 
no  need.  It  is  unanimous.  Comrade  Ivan  is  the 
chairman. 

IVAN.     God  is  good.     I  will  be  the  chairman. 

NIKOLAI.     There  is  a  motion  before  the  meeting. 

IVAN.     I  do  not  remember  any  motion. 

PRISONER.  Mr.  Chairman,  I  have  moved  to  dis 
continue  the  speech  of  Comrade  Corporal. 

FEODOR.     What  was  he  speaking  about? 

BORIS.  No  matter  what.  He  has  the  right  of 
free  speech! 

IVAN.  We  must  vote  upon  the  motion  first, 
and  then  speak  about  it  afterward.  This  is  par 
liamentary  law. 

[98] 


FREE    SPEECH 

BORIS.      What  is  parliamentary  law? 

IVAN.  Parliamentary  law  is  —  why,  it  is  what 
I  say. 

BORIS.  Is  it  anything  like  the  laws  of  the 
zemstvos  ? 

IVAN.     It  is  something  like  them. 

BORIS.  Then  let  us  abolish  parliamentary  law ! 
Let  us  abolish  all  laws  !  I  am  an  anarchist ! 

SERGIUS.  The  anarchists  are  ruining  the 
country ! 

BORIS.  The  anarchists  are  the  hope  of  the 
nation !  The  anarchists  are  — 

SERGIUS.     They  are  not ! 

BORIS.     They  are ! 

PRISONER  [breaking  in]  There  is  a  motion  before 
the  meeting! 

FEODOR.     What  is  the  motion? 

PRISONER  [wearily]  The  motion  is  to  discon 
tinue  the  speech  of  Comrade  Corporal. 

SERGIUS.     It  is  already  discontinued. 

IVAN.  That  makes  no  difference.  We  must 
vote  upon  the  motion  anyway. 

NIKOLAI.     Is  that  parliamentary  law? 

IVAN.     It  is. 

SERGIUS.     Then  let  us  vote! 

CORPORAL  [savagely]  Yes !     Let  us  vote! 

IVAN.  Very  well,  we  will  vote.  All  those  who 
wish  to  discontinue  the  speech  of  Comrade  Cor 
poral  will  go  to  the  right  of  the  gate,  and  face 
that  wall.  All  those  who  do  not  wish  to  discon 
tinue  it  will  go  to  the  left  of  the  gate,  and  face 
that  wall. 

BORIS.     That  vote  is  not  fair! 
[99] 


FREE    SPEECH 

IVAN.     It  is !    That  is  how  the  zemstvos  vote. 
BORIS.     That  does  n't  - 
IVAN.     It  does ! 

SERGIUS.  Comrades,  I  cast  my  vote  by  going 
to  the  right. 

NIKOLAI.     I  go  to  the  left. 

IVAN.     Let  us  vote. 

[All  cast  their  votes,  each  saying  "  right  "  or 
"  left  "  as  he  does  so.  Boris,  Serpius,  and  Feodor 
go  to  the  right;  Ivan  and  Nikolai  go  to  the  left. 
The  Corporal  and  the  Prisoner  remain  glaring  at 
each  other.  The  Prisoner  sniffs  contemptuously, 
says  "Right,"  turns  around  and  joins  the  three 
voters  behind  him.  The  Corporal  snorts  in  dis 
gust  and  goes  to  the  left.] 

IVAN  [to  Boris]  You  are  not  facing  the  wall. 

BORIS.     That  does  n't  make  - 

IVAN.  It  does  !  You  must  face  the  wall.  That 
is  the  rule. 

BORIS.     You  are  not  facing  the  wall. 

IVAN.  That  is  different.  I  must  count  the 
votes. 

BORIS.     I  will  count  them. 

IVAN.  No,  no!  I  am  the  chairman!  Turn 
around ! 

[Boris  reluctantly  turns  to  face  the  wall.  Ivan 
comes  to  the  center,  and  counts  on  his  fingers.] 

IVAN.  Four  votes  have  gone  to  the  right,  and 
three  to  the  left.  Therefore,  the  right  has  it. 

FEODOR.     Which  was  the  right,  now? 

IVAN.  The  right  was  to  discontinue  the  speech 
of  Comrade  Corporal. 

[100] 


FREE    SPEECH 

FEODOR.  Then  I  went  to  the  wrong  side.  [He 
shoulders  his  gun  and  starts  to  cross  to  the  left, 
but  Ivan  stops  him  in  the  middle  of  the  court. ~\ 

IVAN.  The  vote  cannot  be  taken  over  again ! 
No,  no ! 

NIKOLAI.     That  is  n't  - 

IVAN.     It  is ! 

NIKOLAI.  It  is  not!  Speak,  Comrade  Cor 
poral!  [A  slight  pause.] 

CORPORAL.  I  have  forgotten  what  I  was  going 
to  say. 

NIKOLAI.     God  is  good.     [A  pause.] 

FEODOR.     What  are  we  to  do  now? 

SERGIUS  [striding  to  the  center]  Comrades,  I 
demand  the  right  to  speak ! 

CORPORAL.      No,  no,  Comrade  Sergius — 

SERGIUS  [ignoring  him]  Comrades,  the  land  of 
the  people  should  be  divided  up  — 

IVAN.  Wait  a  moment !  This  is  a  meeting. 
We  must  have  a  secretary. 

BORIS.     What  for? 

IVAN.     He  is  an  official. 

BORIS.  Down  with  all  officials.  Let  us  have 
anarchy ! 

IVAN.  You  don't  understand.  This  is  a  dif 
ferent  kind  of  official.  He  must  keep  the  records 
of  the  meeting. 

FEODOR.     I  will  be  the  secretary. 

IVAN.     You  cannot  write. 

FEODOR.     That  makes  no  difference. 

CORPORAL.     Blockhead !      How    can    you    keep 
records  when  you  can't  write? 
[101] 


FREE    SPEECH 

FEODOR.     Can  you  write? 

CORPORAL.     Yes. 

FEODOR.  Then  I  propose  that  the  Corporal 
shall  be  the  secretary. 

PRISONER.     I  can  write  too. 

BORIS.  Then  I  propose  that  the  Prisoner  shall 
be  the  secretary. 

SERGIUS.     Let  us  vote! 

BORIS.     This  voting  is  all  nonsense ! 

IVAN.  Those  who  wish  Comrade  Corporal  to 
be  the  secretary  will  go  to  the  right  of  the  gate. 
Those  who  wish  the  Prisoner  to  be  the  secretary 
will  go  to  the  left  of  the  gate.  Now  let  us  vote. 

\Tlfiey  vote.  Boris,  Sergius,  and  Ivan  go  to  the 
left.  Nikolai  goes  to  the  right.  The  Corporal  and 
the  Prisoner  cross  to  opposite  sides,  glaring  at 
each  other  as  they  meet  on  the  way.  The  Corporal 
votes  right,  the  Prisoner  left.  Feodor  is  left 
standing  alone  in  the  center  of  the  courtyard.] 

FEODOR.  Which  is  the  right,  and  which  is  the 
left? 

CORPORAL.  Booby !  How  did  you  vote  the 
last  time? 

FEODOR.     I  don't  remember. 

IVAN.  Do  you  want  the  Corporal  or  the  Pris 
oner  to  be  the  secretary? 

FEODOR.     I  don't  know. 

CORPORAL.  Answer  the  question,  you  fool ! 
Whom  do  you  want  to  be  the  secretary? 

FEODOR.      I  want  to  be  the  secretary. 

CORPORAL.     Idiot !        Come     here !        [Feodor 
comes  to  the  right  wall.]     Now  do  you  want  to 
go  back  to  the  other  side? 
[102] 


FREE    SPEECH 

CORPORAL.     He  has  voted. 

BORIS.     That  vote  is  not  fair ! 

IVAN.  It  does  n't  make  any  difference.  There 
are  four  to  the  left,  and  only  three  to  the  right. 
The  Prisoner  is  the  secretary. 

FEODOR.     Then  what  are  we  to  do  now? 

SERGIUS  [stepping  forward]  Comrades,  the 
land  — 

CORPORAL  [drowning  him  out]  We  must  shoot 
the  Prisoner! 

NIKOLAI.     What  for? 

CORPORAL.  He  is  a  criminal.  He  has  been 
condemned  to  death  by  the  court.  He  deserves 
to  be  shot.  He  has  — 

PRISONER  [very  coolly]  We  have  voted  to  dis 
continue  your  speech,  Comrade  Corporal.  [He 
draws  a  pencil  and  a  notebook  from  his  pocket., 
and  goes  up  to  the  gate  in  the  rear  wall,  where 
he  sits  down  to  write  the  records  of  the  meet 
ing.] 

CORPORAL  [furious;  pursuing  him  up  toward 
the  gate]  You  can't  do  that !  It  is  not  — 

IVAN  [intervening  and  stopping  him]  He  can! 
He  is  right !  We  have  voted !  That  is  parliamen 
tary  law ! 

SERGIUS.  Comrades,  I  demand  to  be  allowed 
to  speak ! 

CORPORAL  [in  desperation]  Comrade  Sergius, 
I  beg  you ! 

[Sergius  shoves  him  aside,  takes  the  center  of 
the  court,  and  begins  to  speak.  Boris  and  the 
Corporal  turn  away  in  disgust.  The  rest  listen 
with  marked  attention.] 

[103] 


FREE    SPEECH 

SERGIUS.  Comrades  !  The  land  of  the  nation 
should  be  divided  among  the  farming  class. 
The  workers  of  the  people  have  labored  for  cen 
turies  under  tyrants.  They  have  tilled  land  that 
did  not  belong  to  them,  and  given  the  grain  to 
the  nobles.  Comrades,  they  have  earned  the  right 
to  rule  !  Comrades  !  The  rulers  of  to-day  should 
not  be  the  middle  classes,  nor  the  infamous  capi 
talists,  nor  the  soldiers  who  are  covered  with 
innocent  blood.  They  should  be  the  farmers,  who 
have  earned  — 

BORIS  [bursting  forth]  I  move  to  discontinue 
your  speech,  Comrade  Sergius ! 

SERGIUS  [swooping  on  him]  You  are  a  fool  as 
well  as  an  anarchist ! 

BORIS.     You  are  a  thief! 

IVAN  [trying  to  separate  them]  Comrades! 
Comrades,  do  not  quarrel ! 

BORIS  [trying  to  get  at  Sergius]  He  is  a  capi 
talist  !  He  wears  a  collar ! 

SERGIUS.     You  are  drunk! 

FEODOR  [to  Ivan]  I  demand  the  right  to  speak! 

BORIS.      He  is  a  Kornilovist !     He  is  — 

SERGIUS.     You  are  a  liar! 

IVAN  [restraining  Sergius]  Silence! 

CORPORAL  [between  Boris  and  Sergius]  Silence! 

BORIS.     Down  with  everything! 

[Uproar.] 

FEODOR  [pursuing  Ivan,  and  above  the  uproar] 
I  demand  the  right  to  speak ! 

•I VAN.      Siltfhce !       Silence !       Silence,    Comrade 
[104] 


FREE    SPEECH 

Boris!     [Silence  is  partially  restored.]     Comrade 
Feodor  has  the  right  to  speak  and  be  heard ! 

BORIS.     That   is   not  — 

IVAN.     It  is ! 

FEODOR  [breaking  in]  Comrades,  I  propose 
that  this  meeting  shall  declare  war  upon  those 
who  are  menacing  the  peace  of  the  world ! 

ALL.     Bravo ! 

BORIS.     Bravo !    Bravo ! 

FEODOR.  Let  us  join  hands  with  those  who 
are  our  brothers !  Let  us  try  with  them  to  pre 
vent  the  slaughter!  Let  us  declare  war  upon 
their  enemies ! 

ALL.     Bravo ! 

FEODOR.  Let  us  declare  war  immediately  upon 
England ! 

BORIS  AND  THE  PRISONER.     Bravo  ! 

SERGIUS  AND  THE  CORPORAL.     No !    No ! 

SERGIUS.     Let  us  declare  war  on  Germany! 

NIKOLAI.     Let  us  declare  war  on  both! 

BORIS  [shaking  his  fist  in  the  Corporal's  face] 
You  are  a  czarist ! 

CORPORAL.     You  are  a  fool! 

FEODOR.      I  demand  the  right  to  speak! 

BORIS.     Down  with  the  government ! 

CORPORAL.      Silence ! 

IVAN.      Silence ! 

BORIS.     Down  with  everybody ! 

[General  uproar.  Ivan  runs  from  group  to 
group,  and  finally  makes  himself  heard.] 

IVAN.      Silence!      Silence,   comrades,    silence,   I 
say!       Silence,    Comrade    Boris!       [The    tumult 
subsides  to  a  certain  degree.]     You  cannot  make 
[  105  ] 


FREE    SPEECH 

a  motion  like  that.     It  is  not  parliamentary  law! 
[Complete  silence.] 

FEODOR.     Why  not? 

IVAN.     It  is  not,  because  I  say  it  is  not. 

BORIS.     Down  with  parliamentary  law ! 

FEODOR.  You  cannot  make  things  true  by 
saying  they  are  true ! 

SERGIUS.       He  is  right ! 

NIKOLAI.     No  !    No !    He  is  wrong ! 

["He's  right!"  "He's  wrong!"  Renewed 
uproar.  ] 

CORPORAL,  [struck  with  an  inspiration]  Silence! 
Silence,  comrades !  Comrade  Ivan  is  right.  The 
motion  cannot  be  made  because  there  is  already 
a  motion  before  the  meeting. 

FEODOR.     What  is  the  motion? 

CORPORAL.  The  motion  is  — -  to  shoot  the 
Prisoner ! 

BORIS.      I  do  not  remember  any  such  motion. 

SERGIUS.  Was  there  a  motion  to  shoot  you, 
comrade? 

PRISONER.     No ! 

CORPORAL.  Then  I  will  make  the  motion  now. 
I  move  to  shoot  the  Prisoner. 

PRISONER  [pushing  past  him,  to  Ivan]  Mr. 
Chairman,  I  move  to  withdraw  that  motion,  and 
shoot  the  Corporal  instead. 

CORPORAL.     You  can't  do  that ! 

PRISONER.      Of  course  I  can  ! 

IVAN  [separating  them]  He  can!  He  has  the 
right  to  do  it,  Comrade  Corporal ! 

FEODOR.     Then     I     move     to     withdraw     that 
motion,  and  shoot  neither  one  of  them. 
[106] 


FREE    SPEECH 

BORIS.     No,  no ! 

NIKOLAI.  Yes,  let  us  shoot  neither  the  Cor 
poral  nor  the  Prisoner!  Let  us  go  out  and  find 
some  capitalist,  and  shoot  him  instead ! 

BORIS.     Let  us  shoot  all  three ! 

FEODOR.     Let  us  vote ! 

IVAN.     What  is  the  motion  before  the  meeting? 

FEODOR.      I  don't  know. 

SERGIUS.     Ask  the  secretary. 

PRISONER.  There  are  two  motions  before  the 
meeting.  One  is  to  shoot  the  Prisoner.  The  other 
is  to  shoot  the  Corporal. 

IVAN.  We  will  vote  on  the  first  one  first.  We 
will  vote  whether  we  shall  shoot  the  Prisoner  or 
not.  I  will  call  out  the  names,  and  each  man  will 
say  yes  or  no.  Those  who  say  Yes  will  go  to  the 
right  of  the  gate.  Those  who  say  No  will  go  to 
the  left  of  the  gate.  Comrade  Corporal ! 

CORPORAL.  Yes !  [He  goes  to  the  right,  and 
stands  facing  the  wall.] 

IVAN.      Comrade  Sergius ! 

[The  Prisoner  has  risen,  and  opened  one  of  the 
doors  in  the1  wall  enough  for  passage.  Seeing  the 
Corporal's  back  turned,  and  the  attention  of  the 
rest  fixed  on  Sergius,  he  bolts  out.  The  door 
closes  behind  him.  His  exit  is  unnoticed.] 

SERGIUS.  Comrade,  I  insist  that  the  land  of  the 
people  — 

IVAN.     No,  no ! 

CORPORAL  [facing  about]  Idiot!  We  are  vot- 
now! 

SERGIUS.     That  does  n't  make  any  — 

IVAN.     It  does  !    Be  still ! 

[107] 


FREE    SPEECH 

SERGIUS  [doggedly]  It  does  n't  make  a  — 

IVAN.     How  do  you  vote? 

SERGIUS.     No ! 

IVAN.  Then  go  and  stand  over  there.  And  be 
silent!  [Sergius  goes  to  the  left  wall.}  Comrade 
Nikolai! 

NIKOLAI.     Yes.     [He  goes  to  the  right.} 

IVAN.      Comrade  Feodor! 

FEODOR.     No.      [He  goes  left.} 

IVAN.      Comrade  Boris! 

BORIS.     Yes!     [He  crosses  to  the  right.} 

IVAN.       How  does  the  Prisoner  vote? 

[A  dead  silence.  With  very  blank  expressions, 
all  slowly  look  around.] 

FEODOR.     Where  is  the  Prisoner? 

NIKOLAI.     He  is  gone! 

CORPORAL.  You  fools  !  You  have  let  him  get 
away!  [He  runs  to  the  doors,  and  flings  them 
open.]  Run  after  him! 

[They  crowd  through  the  gateway  into  the 
street  outside.  Boris  and  Nikolai  run  to  the  left; 
Feodor  and  the  Corporal  to  the  right.  Ivan  and 
Sergius  remain  standing  in  the  street.] 

SERGIUS.     He  is  not  in  sight. 

IVAN.     We  do  not  know  which  way  he  went. 

[A  short  pau$e.  ] 

BORIS  [returning]  It  is  hopeless  to  run  after 
him. 

FEODOR  [returning]  We  could  never  catch  him 
now. 

NIKOLAI  [returning]  God  is  good. 

[A   pause.      They   come  back  into   the  court- 
[108] 


FREE    SPEECH 

yard.  The  Corporal  is  the  last  to  return.  He 
stands  in  the  gateway,  surveying  the  squad,  too 
full  for  words.  Silence  for  a  moment.] 

FEODOR.      What  are  we  to  do  now? 

BORIS.     Who  let  him  get  away? 

FEODOR.     The  Corporal ! 

BORIS.     Then  let  us  shoot  the  Corporal ! 

[Boris,  Sergius,  Feodor,  and  Nikolai  immedi 
ately  level  their  rifles  at  the  Corporal.] 

CORPORAL.  What !  You  are  going  to  try  to 
shoot  me? 

BORIS.  You  were  ordered  by  the  court  to  have 
the  Prisoner  shot.  He  was  in  your  charge.  You 
let  him  get  away.  You  deserve  death !  [He  cocks 
his  rifle.] 

CORPORAL.  It  was  not  my  fault  that  he  got 
away. 

BORIS.     It  was ! 

SERGIUS.      It  makes  no  difference. 

IVAN  [getting  his  first  chance  to  speak]  There 
is  a  motion  before  the  meeting. 

FEODOR.     What  is  it? 

IVAN.     To  shoot  the  Corporal. 

SERGIUS.     Let  us  vote ! 

NIKOLAI  [lowering  his  gun]  Wait,  comrade ! 
Comrade  Chairman,  this  meeting  has  now  no 
secretary. 

FEODOR.     We  shall  have  to  elect  one. 

IVAN.     We  must  have  a  secretary. 

BORIS.     But  it  will  delay  the  execution ! 

NIKOLAI.     That  makes  no  difference. 

BORIS.  But  the  Corporal  is  the  only  one  who 
can  read  and  write ! 

[109] 


FREE    SPEECH 

IVAN.     Let  us  elect  him,  then !   . 

BORIS.      But  we  are  going  to  shoot  him ! 

IVAN.     That  makes  no  difference. 

NIKOLAI.  I  propose  that  the  Corporal  shall 
be  the  secretary. 

FEODOR.     Let  us  vote! 

IVAN.  All  who  wish  the  Corporal  to  be  the 
secretary  will  go  to  the  right.  [General  move 
ment  to  the  right.'  The  Corporal  seizes  the  op 
portunity,  and  walks  out  the  open  gateway 
unnoticed.]  There  is  no  need  to  vote.  It  is 
unanimous.  The  Corporal  is  the  secretary. 

BORIS.     Then  let  us  shoot  him. 

IVAN.  Those  who  wish  to  kill  the  Corporal  will 
say  yes,  and  go  to  the  right.  Those  who  do  not 
wish  to  kill  him  will  say  no,  and  go  to  the  left. 
Comrade  Nikolai ! 

NIKOLAI.     Yes. 

IVAN.      Comrade  Feodor ! 

FEODOR.     Yes. 

IVAN.      Comrade  Sergius ! 

SERGIUS.     Yes. 

IVAN.     Comrade  Boris ! 

BORIS.     Yes ! 

IVAN.      Comrade  Corporal! 

[Again  a  blank  silence.  Boris  wheels  slowly 
about,  and  stands  speechless.  Nikolai  turns  more 
quickly,  Feodor  still  more  quickly,  and  Sergius  as 
if  on  a  pivot.  Consternation.] 

SERGIUS.     Why,  he  has  gone  too ! 

[Sergius,  Ivan,  Nikolai,  and  Feodor  run  to  the 
gateway,  crowd  through  it,  and  stand  looking  up 
[110] 


FREE    SPEECH 

and  down  the  street.  Boris  remains  standing  m 
the  courtyard.] 

BORIS.  But  we  are  unanimous!  He  is  con 
demned  to  be  shot! 

FEODOR.      He  is  not  in  sight. 

IVAN.     He  is  gone. 

NIKOLAI.     God  is  good. 

[They  drift  slowly  back  into  the  courtyard 
again.  There  is  a  pause.] 

BORIS.     Who  let  him  get  away? 

SERGIUS.      He  got  away  during  the  voting. 

FEODOR.      Who  started  the  voting? 

NIKOLAI.  Comrade  Ivan  started  it.  He  is  the 
chairman. 

BORIS.     Then  let  us  shoot  comrade  Ivan ! 

[Four  rifles  are  pointed  at  Ivan.] 

IVAN.  You  cannot  shoot  a  chairman.  That  is 
not  parliamentary  law. 

[A  pause.    The  rifles  are  lowered.] 

BORIS.      Then  what  are  we  going  to  shoot? 

SERGIUS.     Who  started  the  whole  execution? 

FEODOR.  The  court  that  condemned  the 
Prisoner ! 

NIKOLAI.  There  were  ten  men  on  the  jury 
who  wore  collars ! 

BORIS.  Comrades  !  [He  seizes  Sergius  by  the 
arm,  and  draws  the  others  together  into  a  group.] 
Are  free  men  to  subject  themselves  to  idle  aris 
tocrats  who  are  pampered  by  luxury?  Let  us  go 
and  set  fire  to  the  courtroom,  and  kill  the  in 
famous  judges  where  they  stand!  Comrades! 
Follow  me!  [He  draws  Sergius  out  the  gate;  the 

[in] 


FREE    SPEECH 

others  start  to  follow.     Sergius  breaks  free  from 
his  hold,  and  turns  in  the  gateway  to  argue.] 

SERGIUS.  No,  no,  Comrade  Boris !  Let  us 
reason  with  the  men ! 

FEODOR.  And  then  they  will  take  off  the 
collars ! 

BORIS.  But  if  they  do  not  listen  to  reason,  let 
us  kill  them! 

NIKOLAI.     Let  us  go! 

FEODOR.     Yes,  let  us  go! 

[They  start  going  out  the  gate.  Boris  pauses 
to  deliver  one  last  oration.] 

BORIS.  Let  us  refuse  to  recognize  the  laws  of 
a  counter-revolutionary  and  anti-democratic  body 
as  binding  upon  us !  Down  with  all  judges ! 
Down  with  all  courts  and  all  governments !  Let 
us  have  anarchy ! 

SERGIUS.  No,  no,  Comrade  Boris !  Let  us 
have  a  democracy,  with  the  right  of  free  speech 
for  every  man.  The  anarchists  are  ruining  the 
country ;  but  a  democracy  with  free  speech  is  the 
greatest  of  all  the  gifts  of  God. 

NIKOLAI.     God  is  good. 

[They  go  out.,  and  are  heard  to  pass  down  the 
street  to  the  right.  After  a  moment,  the  Prisoner 
steals  in  from  the  prison,  carrying  something  un 
der  his  coat.  He  goes  to  the  gate,  looks  after 
the  departed  Russians,  and  laughs  to  himself. 

He  returns  to  the  prison  wall,  and  takes  from 
under  his  coat  a  fuse  bomb.  He  plants  the  bomb 
by  the  prison  wall,  takes  from  his  pocket  a  box  of 
matches,  and  lights  the  fuse.  He  rises,  and  turns 
toward  the  gate  once  more. 
[112] 


FREE    SPEECH 

As  he  turns  he  begins  to  whistle  a  tune.  It  is 
"  Die  Wacht  am  Rhein."  He  strolls  out  the  gate: 
the  whistling  swells  to  a  triumphal  march,  and  the 
fuse  burns  on.] 

CURTAIN 


[113] 


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APR  22  1 

29  • 
7Jun'53FF 

•Oft  41953  t 


:C11  1953  LU 

HJan'GOFKZ 


LD 

UN  1  1  1960 


• 
JAN  2    1963 

29Feb'«3TD 

)M**sL 


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